


winter wheat, sunflower peat

by newsbypostcard



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Aliases, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Canon-Typical Violence, Farms???, Identity, M/M, Memory Loss, Pining, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Roadtrip, Slow Burn, Steve doesn't join SHIELD, Threats of Violence, midwestern gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 20:43:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12590164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard
Summary: In the dead of the night, a man pulls over for a hitchhiker.





	winter wheat, sunflower peat

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[翻译] winter wheat, sunflower peat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16691803) by [juliaindream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliaindream/pseuds/juliaindream)



> A PERFECT PODFIC from the inimitable [quietnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietnight/pseuds/quietnight) for this fic can be found here: [[link](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13908732)] Q does such an amazing job working around my errors and really brings this work to life with her cadence, editing and styling. Please send her praise for doing such high-quality accessibility work to help people enjoy these stories more easily ♥
> 
> In addition to the above link to ao3, you can also access the Chinese translation of this fic [here](http://juliaindream.lofter.com/post/20e447_12c8394fd).

  


**i.**

If the newspapers are right, the truck's thirty years old by conservative estimates. It's full of dents. The tailgate's gone, the undercarriage rusted through.

The driver's twisted in his seat, staring at him through the back window. Illuminated only by the red of his taillights, his eyes appear sunken and wide. He looks at the hitchhiker like he's not sure what he's seeing, his fingers digging tense against the passenger seat.

It's midnight in Kansas. First car to pass in an hour meets a lone traveler in wintertime. It's a strange situation. That's all it is.

The hitchhiker steps forward. His fist tightens at the sack over his shoulder. He's got a blade in his sleeve and another in his sock. There's a pistol tucked in the waistband of his jeans, another in his bag. He doesn't want to jack the guy if he doesn't have to.

He steps level with the window. The driver keeps staring like a deer in headlights. The man looks about as bad as his truck.

"Going west?" the hitchhiker asks.

The driver's mouth parts. He shuts his eyes hard, then looks forward. Is he... _high?_ "Uh… yeah." He licks dry lips, meets the hitchhiker's eye again. Coming down from it, maybe. "Yeah. I'm going -- west."

"You sure about that?"

The driver nods, swallows hard. "Salina, then… then Denver-bound." He still doesn't sound sure, but he doesn't even seem that sure of reality right now. "Drop you just outside. Far enough?"

Farther than he'd hoped. The hitchhiker pulls open the door. The thing's a piece of junk; takes more strength than it should. "Thanks," he mutters, pulling it hard shut after him.

The driver doesn't say anything. He just seems to study him, like he's never seen a man before. Finally he tears his gaze away, puts the car into gear, and doesn't look at him again for a long time.

  


  


  


  


"What brought you to Wichita?" 

For some reason he assumed this guy's weird vibes meant he'd leave him alone. The driver has relaxed since they passed through Newton, though his knuckles stay clenched white at the gearshift. Now it's time to play 'get to know you.' Trouble is he's got no worldly sense of that himself.

"Work," he grunts, looking away.

"What do you do?"

"Whatever they'll hire me for."

The driver's eyes tighten at the corners. "Trying your luck out west?"

"What the songs tell you to do, ain't it?"

He glances over, but doesn't quite meet his eye. "From around here?"

The hitchhiker's got no answer to that. He sits in silence. Guy doesn't seem to care either way. "Got a name?" he asks instead.

The hitchhiker sighs. "Take your pick."

" _My_ pick."

"Sure. Tom, Dick or Harry."

"Those my only options?"

"I don't give a fuck, guy, I'm Bugs Moran if it suits you."

A flicker at his mouth. "So you're a gangster."

"Call me reformed."

"That's a terrible name. I'll stick with Bugs."

Well, at least he doesn't hate it. "What about you? You got a name?"

Guy doesn't answer for a while. Seems he's not the only one hiding something. "What do I look like to you?" he finally asks.

They look at each other and figure it out.

"An idiot," says Bugs.

Against the odds, the guy laughs. It makes him look nice. He could be attractive if he wasn't such a mess. "Guess I walked into that one."

Bugs looks over at him -- looks at his clunker of an automobile, at the baseball cap low over his eyes even at night, at the ten days of growth over his face. At the holes in his threadbare t-shirt. "Grant," he says suddenly. It crept over him, like a sneaking suspicion. He frowns and looks ahead. "Guess you could be a Grant."

The guy nods, doesn't say anything a while. "Guess I could be a Grant," he says, wrenched.

Bugs rolls his eyes. "Look. Don't get weird on me here."

"I -- sorry."

"I'm stronger than I look."

"Not in doubt."

"Just looking for a ride. You want fair trade, I don't do that anymore. I'll get out now, you'll forget you ever saw me."

"No trade," he says, glancing at him with alarm. "I don't want it. Just doing you a favour, and not," he tips his head hastily, "a sexual one. A ride on me and that's all, swear on my mother's grave. Just hoping to get to know you, but if you don't want..."

For better or worse, Bugs believes him. Resolve sinks in him like an undeniable stone. "Fine," he says, and waves him off. He leans an elbow against the window. "Thanks."

"Getting cold out there," Grant says, but it sounds like an excuse. "Not much of anyone if I don't lend a hand."

  


  


  


  


They make a wrong turn at Salina, but double back quick enough.

Bugs watches him. "So what's in Denver?"

Grant seems surprised by the question. "Run a farm," he says, shifting a little. "I got, ah -- too many cows. Good cow season. Gotta sell."

Grant's a terrible liar. Bugs looks out the windscreen and sighs. "Not gonna bother asking why you're driving six hours out of your way for a stranger."

"I'm not," he says quickly. "I'm not. I'm... Listen, it's hard to explain. I went into Wichita for supplies, got involved in some business I don't want to be in. Gotta get to Aurora, consult with more folks I don't want to talk to. My farm is back there." He thumbs over his shoulder. "That's why I made that turn. Autopilot, I guess, trying to get home, but I'm supposed to be in Colorado. That's the God's honest truth."

It sounds like it. At least he's honest when he decides to be honest.

"Doing shady business at midnight, huh? Maybe you should be the one called Bugs Moran."

Grant snorts. "Regular Al Capone. That's me."

Bugs twitches. Something surfaces--

_"Yeah, pal, you're a regular Al Capone with your back alley deals."_

He doesn't want it. He doesn't… want... 

He tries to push it out of his mind, but -- "Pull over." 

Grant does. Bugs forces his way out of the piece of shit tin can, barely has time to collapse on the shoulder before the heaving starts. It's mostly bile but it shakes him hard; he's gotta let go of the gun if he wants to keep it hidden. He takes his hand out of his bag, shakes his blade into his hand, tries not to lose track of the guy as he comes up behind him.

It lasts a while. Not much in him to lose, but his body keeps trying. Grant just watches, doesn't even try to help. When Bugs shambles to his feet, Grant hands him some water without saying a word. 

It's an old Army canteen. Bugs cringes against another hot surge and swallows it down, keeping his eyes closed as he drinks. "Thanks," he says finally, handing it back. "Sorry. For delaying you. You didn't have to -- I can walk from here."

"Don't be stupid. It's thirty degrees."

"I'm sick."

"So you're gonna walk the whole way? What, you gonna catch another ride? No one's gonna pass for four hours at least, you're better off in this one. Get in, keep warm."

"Not cold."

"Your clothes are threadbare. You clearly haven't eaten in a while, you look like shit."

" _You're_ here to lecture me on looking like shit?"

Grant makes an exasperated sound. "Just get in the car," he says sharply, and when Bugs turns to give him a menacing glare, he doesn't step back. He just lets his face relax -- looks _sorry_ , of all things. Then he says it: "Sorry," quiet, like he means it. Bugs feels his face contort with incredulity. "You don't have to do anything you don't want. But if you're trying to intimidate me, it's not gonna work. Don't try to leave on my account." 

It's the first time Bugs has really looked at him head-on. He gets this weird feeling he's seen this guy before. 

"I'll take you where you need to go," Grant says. "You feel the urge to get it out? Fine. I'll pull over, wait with you, get you some water, make sure you can stand. And then we'll keep on going. Doesn't have to be complicated."

"What's your game?" Bugs asks, harsh.

The guy stares at him, jaw set. Then he shakes his head. "No game. Just trying to help."

"People don't do that."

"I'm not people."

"Don't you have a delivery to make?"

"What... delivery?"

"Surplus cows."

Grant blinks at him. Then he almost smiles. "No set time for the meeting. I'm not in a rush."

"You're driving through the night for a meeting you're not in any hurry for. What are you, a hit man?"

Grant gestures to himself, then to his truck. "I look like a hit man?"

If he was a hit man, he'd have killed Bugs already. He certainly had his chance. 

Bugs nods at the canteen in his hand. "You Army, then?"

Grant blinks at him, looks at the canteen, looks back at Bugs. "Ah… yeah. It's been a while." It doesn't sound right. Maybe that's why the guy's a mess. "I drive a lot, always thirsty. Can't get behind drinking water from plastic. Never tastes right." He shakes the canteen in the air. "Dollar a pop at a thrift shop. It's what I'm used to. Not that I…"

"Nothing wrong with serving."

The guy laughs shakily to the sky, breath pluming like smoke. Yeah, alright, it's _definitely_ fucking him up. "No. I guess not."

"Special forces?"

He hesitates. "You could say that."

"They got you back as a civilian, huh?" 

Grant's eyes find the ground, then go off to the side. He fidgets with the canteen, flipping it quick over in his hand. He's agile, knows it; watches his own movements. "Just trying to live my life," he murmurs. "I guess it's too much to ask that they don't come looking for me." 

Then his eyes flit to Bugs and stay there, narrowing. 

Bugs' eyes narrow, too. Did he serve with this guy somewhere, sometime? Did they used to have him, too?

"Do I know you?" he asks suddenly, empty.

Grant blinks at him. He swallows, eyes searching. Then he shakes his head, like he doesn't find what he's looking for. "I don't think so."

That doesn't sound right either. Who the fuck is this guy?

Grant nods at the cab. "I can see you shivering. We're in the middle of nowhere Kansas, it's one in the morning, you're weak as hell and we're a long way from anything. I haven't hurt you yet."

Bugs laughs, hollow. "Is that a threat?"

"Did it sound like a threat?"

It didn't. That's the thing.

"C'mon." Grant nods again. "I'm not gonna leave you like this."

The guy's a veteran. Grief wafts off him like it's in his blood. If nothing else, they share a history of killing. Maybe all Bugs feels is an affinity for the affliction.

Still staring at Grant, he shuffles over and pulls open the sticking door. He holds his eye as he crawls in. Puts the blade away only when the gun's safely back in his hand.

Grant shuts the door expertly after him, gets in the other side, and drives.

  


  


  


  


They don't have to make any more stops for his measly fucking constitution. They don't talk much more, either. Despite the open, yawning road and the dedication of their silence, they're both wide awake through to Colorado.

Grant seems on his guard, but it's a guard Bugs can't place. Grant really doesn't seem to want anything to do with him. He doesn't want to attack him, doesn't want to cop a feel, doesn't want a blowjob. Doesn't even seem to want to force him to stay in the car if he really doesn't want to. If he was trying to bring him in, he'd have probably resorted to violence when they'd argued about it at the side of the road.

Maybe he's just employing unusual methods. 

He also doesn't exactly look like the type to pick up hitchhikers. None of the usual markers -- no kitschy shit on the dashboard, no weird stash of beef jerky, no passing of flasks across the front seat. Guy just wants to drive and help him out. If the aim's to make him feel at ease, it's almost working.

Almost.

Bugs keeps his shoulders square, his fingers wrapped around his gun. He's waiting for the other shoe to drop. There's something about this that doesn't sit right no matter how many times he tells himself he can afford to relax by an inch. If they don't take advantage, people at least take opportunities. He gets the feeling this guy's taking him somewhere, purposeful -- like he wants Bugs to go willingly instead of over a fight. 

Bugs wonders if he did something to this guy -- killed his family, his wife, his mom. If that's why he looks familiar. If that's why Grant looked at him like that when he pulled over for him -- like he'd seen a ghost. 

If Bugs had to guess, Grant hasn't slept in a while. But there's colour in his face again; he's stopped white-knuckling the gearshift. He wasn't high after all; Bugs had read him wrong. It feels like he's reading the whole situation all wrong.

  


  


  


  


It's a little after four when they cross the state line.

"Think you could keep something down?" Grant says.

Bugs looks at him, then watches a sign zip past advertising a Denny's. "Oh." He shifts uncomfortably. "No. Rather get going."

"Need coffee. I'm fading." The guy might be tired, but he is not fading. "Rather sit down a minute, give my eyes a rest. Stretch my legs."

"I'll get off where you're stopping. Won't burden you further. Thanks for getting me this far."

Grant looks over at him. Under all that hair and fatigue, his eyes look almost bright. "It's on me," he says, and looks ahead again. "If you can stomach it, you should get some food in you."

"I'm not some charity case."

"Of course not. You're homeless and hitchhiking through Kansas in the dead of the night looking like the walking dead because you're doing just fine."

Bugs' lip curls. "My life's not your business. You're the one who keeps saying I don't owe you anything."

"You don't. I'm offering. I saw what you lost back there and it wasn't much. When's the last time you had a hot meal?"

"Jesus _Christ._ You some kind of missionary or something?"

Grant smiles. "I'm not trying to save you. Just know the difference a hot meal makes when you need it."

Bugs grunts. Something about the conversation's making bile crawl into his mouth again. He curls up desperately, putting his feet up on the dash. He crosses his arms over his chest and swallows against self-disgust, watching the world go by through the window.

Grant doesn't seem fazed by any of it. They drive in silence through Limon. He pulls into a gas station, gets wordlessly out of the truck, fills the tank, gets back in. 

Bugs doesn't know why he doesn't leave then and there. But he doesn't.

"I'm gonna order two grand slams whether you come in or not," Grant says, slamming the door shut behind him. He puts the truck into gear; cuts onto a curb, swears, reverses, reaches a hand to rest at the back of the passenger seat as he twists. Bugs flinches, leans away; Grant notices, then looks forward again without a word. "Only got room for one. You can go if you want, but I guess that means the other one's gonna go to waste." He shifts into first, then palms easily around the curb. He seems decisive, except for whatever frantic feeling is filling the cabin. "Seems like a damn shame."

"You're really gonna guilt me into taking this meal?"

"Well, sincerity's not getting me very far."

It's a hot half-block to the Denny's parking lot. Grant kills the engine and shoots him a passive-aggressive look, then shoulders in his way out of the car. 

Bugs spends about a split second watching him walk up to the front door before swearing and kicking the door furiously open. He hesitates a second as he tries to figure out what to do with his bag; it'd look weird to have his hand in it all through breakfast, but he doesn't want to leave it. 

In a public place, with people there, Grant probably won't try anything. He doesn't seem the type to raze an unsuspecting Denny's to the ground with fire. Bugs finally leaves his bag under the seat and shuts the door hard, trying to kill his anger when he sees Grant holding the door for him.

He gives Bugs some smile that edges him close to beautiful again. Bugs wants to punch him for that offense alone.

  


  


  


  


Bugs picks his table carefully; slides into the booth so his back's against the wall. He grabs packets of sugars from the nearby carafe to occupy his hands. Registers the exits: one, two; a third behind the kitchen. He catches Grant studying him as he does it, when he finally looks back.

Bugs winces, looks away again. He tears off the tops of three packets at a time. He props them, open, against the carafe, then pulls out a bunch more.

"Like sugar in your coffee?" Grant asks him. 

It's a weird question, a handler question. Bugs stares him down, jaw clenching. Grant holds his hands in a motion of surrender, then clasps his fingers back together against the table, pretending not to pay attention anymore. He looks out the window. His index fingers extend, tapping nervously together. He's watching every move Bugs makes in the corner of his eye, like he thinks he won't notice. 

Does he think he's stupid? 

Is he waiting for someone? 

Oh, God. Is backup coming? Is this a trap? 

Bugs feels his foot tapping frantically as his anxiety picks up. Had Grant planned this all along? Bugs glances far into the dining lounge, mapping his path to the kitchen. There's two guys at the bar, sitting apart; there's another at the back corner booth. No one looks like they care if he's here. Barrier's low enough to his right; he could strike Grant down with his metal arm, jump the barrier, jump the counter with the leftover momentum, be through the door and into the night before Grant could even right himself.

He should have brought in his _fucking_ bag.

"Mornin', boys."

Bugs jumps. His fist clenches hard. Grant looks at him, then at the server, pasting a broad smile on to put her at ease.

The server's name is, apparently, Elektra. That's way too out there to be a Hydra cover. 

"How's it going?" Grant asks her.

She drags her gaze from Bugs' haunted face and lands on Grant's instead, where he's transformed instantly into a warm, easygoing, handsome version of himself. "Not too bad," she says, smiling back. "End of the night shift, you know how it is."

"Well, we're easy customers. Keen to get on the road again. Two coffees." He glances at Bugs, who stares concertedly at the table. "If you could bring lots of creamers."

"You got it," Elektra says, and she makes her way back behind the counter. 

Grant pulls out another bunch of Sweet & Low packets and starts tearing at the tops of them, the way Bugs is. Maybe it's to draw attention away from the habit. It calms Bugs, somehow; a simple act of solidarity. 

No backup comes. 

They don't say anything else until Elektra comes back. Grant orders a Lumberjack Slam -- eggs over easy, sourdough bread. Bugs stifles an inexplicable smile. 

"Same," he says, and forces a glance at Elektra. She must see something salvageable in him when he does, because she softens a little, walking away with a nod and a remark. 

Grant pours three of the open sugars into his coffee. Bugs follows suit. The coffee's hot, thank God. He wraps his hands around the mug; feels the warmth of it through his gloves. 

Relief sparks somewhere deep in his chest. _Hospitality._ He's not sure when someone's shown him hospitality.

"Thanks," he mutters, not looking at Grant.

Grant nods, doesn't say anything. Looks anywhere but at Bugs. "So, uh… you're Army, too, huh?"

Brightness sparks in the back of his eyes. He doesn't want to think about it too hard. He busies himself with his coffee, stirring it unnecessarily. "What gave it away?"

"Well… you sit with your back to the wall. You scoped the room on entry; counted the exits, the number of people, their positions, whether or not they were carrying. You knew my canteen was Army-issue." Grant looks out the window. "You've had your hand around a gun since you got into my car." 

Bugs looks up, but Grant doesn't even seem bothered. "I know you got another pistol in your belt, a knife in your sleeve," he goes on. "You've never drawn them, so you're not a common criminal. You move like you're being hunted."

Jesus, this guy's good. "Who's to say I'm not?"

Grant looks straight at him, unafraid. He's known how well armed he is this entire time and hasn't kicked him out. Now he's calling his bluff, letting him know he knows, and they're still sitting across from each other in a Denny's like they're fucking friends.

The man's unarmed, himself. Again and again, it's the thing Bugs comes back to: no agent of Hydra is going to try to bring him in unarmed. 

He still has a game, that much is clear. It's just that Bugs has no worldly idea what it is. He sees something in this guy's eyes that makes him uneasy, but not in ways that he expects. 

"I only bring it up," Grant begins, but he falters there. Then he glances up, honest again. "This nation doesn't do enough for those who return. Can't fault you for old habits."

Bugs laughs. It's a hollow, hounded sound. "You should."

"Haven't done anything worthy of fault."

"I brought concealed weapons into your vehicle. Might've killed you if you looked at me wrong."

Grant shrugs, then smiles, a little sad. "If you intended to kill me, you would have done by now." 

It's good logic. Seems like another thing he'd known from the beginning. 

Bugs stays silent as Grant empties the carafe of creamers onto the table. He starts stacking them into tiny pyramids with steady, stable hands. "How long you been back?"

Bugs gives a shrug, spinning his mug in tight circles against the table. "Months, maybe. I… I don't know."

Grant blinks at him. "You don't know?"

"I've been trying to find…" He trails off, worrying at his lip with his teeth. "There's a lot I lost track of." He looks out the window into the night. It's been pitch black for what feels like too long.

Grant nods, looks sad. He lets the tower stand free a second before flicking it over, pushing the whole pile of creamers toward Bugs and picking his coffee up again. Bugs takes the hint; starts stacking the creamers for himself. Finds it soothing. Pyramids to build, two- and three-dimensional. It spares the sugars their fate, at least.

Silence settles, their evergreen companion. For a while, the only sounds are falling creamers and clashing plates from within the kitchen. 

"I, uh, had a buddy once," Grant mutters, mug close against his lips. "Got lost in the war. Not… y'know... his body was intact, but he… he wasn't himself."

Bugs clenches his teeth. "Lotta folks who know that story."

Grant nods. He doesn't go on. There's something hard about the silence, now, something precarious. Whatever Bugs sees flashes of across Grant's face from time to time is now writ large.

"What happened to him?" Bugs asks, sudden. "Your friend."

Grant keeps staring out the window. "Died," he says. It's almost idle, matter-of-fact. His fingers scan slow around the curve of the porcelain in his hands. Dirt's burrowed deep under his fingernails, like buried regrets.

Bugs had expected it, but it's still a blow. "Sorry," he says. He shouldn't have asked. 

Grant inhales hard, like life's filling him up again. "Nah," he says, smiling grimly. "Just… used to think he'd still find a way out of it somehow, you know? That I'd find him having changed his name, set up a life somewhere. Got his happily ever after, way he was supposed to."

The guy might be perceptive, but he's also a romantic. Suddenly Bugs feels sorry for the guy. "Look," he sighs. "Maybe you were hoping that for yourself, but if you looked at him when his heart was still beating and you saw he wasn't there... I'm sorry to say it, pal, but I think you always knew how that story was gonna end."

Grant looks at him. Their food arrives; he stares uninterrupted. He looks like he wants to say something else, but he's gone pale again. Is the guy diabetic? "Maybe you're right," he finally says, and moves his limbs as though breaking from stone. He picks up his cutlery and besets on his meal. "I guess it's just that if there's one thing I've learned about life, it's that the things that are supposed to kill you sometimes make you stronger."

"Try not to sound so cut up about it."

Grant laughs, soft. It keeps surprising Bugs when he does that. "I wasn't trying to talk about myself."

"C'mon. You wanna talk about my habits? You wear death on your face, you can't lie worth a damn. You ain't exactly a tough nut to crack."

Grant doesn't respond for a while. Bugs is so preoccupied by eating that he doesn't read the silence right. When he finally looks up, Grant looks fast away, like he'd been staring right through him for what he said.

"Didn't mean anything by it," Bugs says, bewildered, though he'd known he was being an asshole when he said it. 

"Didn't say anything wrong."

"Hey, c'mon. Not the best way to show appreciation to the guy buying me breakfast. You don't have to take shit from me just because I'm nuts. I can at least be fucking nice."

Grant gives an awful smile. There's grief at its edges, prying it thin. "You're just telling it like it is, pal. Can't fault you for that."

  


  


  


  


The food is a godsend. Backup never comes. Bugs feels warm for the first time since the first frost.

Grant soundly refuses to take it when Bugs pulls a few rumpled singles out from his pocket. He tries to leave it as a tip instead, but Grant's covered that too -- generously, at that. Man can't buy a new fucking shirt but apparently he can tip Elektra to the tune of thirty-five percent.

They retreat into silence once back in the car, but the quiet bothers Bugs, now. It doesn't feel right. Without food to distract them, their confessions weigh heavy. It seems to bother Grant, too; he turns on the truck's AM radio and fiddles with the dial until guitar breaks through static.

" _Good morning, Denver,_ " croons a smarmy, distant-sounding broadcaster not long later. " _It's 5:30am and a crisp 25 degrees, with temperatures dropping through the morning as clouds break to sunny skies. Here is your morning news: last night concluded the preliminary hearings on the Helicarrier Massacre, as investigators try to determine whether it was attack or malfunction that resulted in the deaths of more than 700,000 New Yorkers eight months ago._ "

Bugs freezes. His eyes fix on the radio. He can't feel his limbs enough to turn the thing off.

" _The hearings, which began in June, have seen testimony from the FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, and top-secret security organization SHIELD--_ " unexpectedly, Grant snorts-- " _on what contributed to the catastrophe. Former SHIELD agents have painted an especially complex picture for commissioners, pushing responsibility away from themselves as they allege that the helicarrier system was hijacked by terrorists infiltrating their organization._ "

"Turn it off," Bugs whispers, but it's like he's not there. Grant doesn't hear him. It's like he's not there.

" _Asked to answer for its failure to prevent the massacre despite a multi-billion dollar budget, SHIELD's defense has relied heavily on now-famous security footage of an unknown assailant, meant to prove the infiltration; in it, an as-yet unidentified man is shown to single-handedly incapacitate several of the heroes under SHIELD's command as they attempted to stop--"_

He punches the off button so hard the radio crumples under impact. Grant jumps, then prods at the radio for signs of life. "I didn't like that guy either," he mutters -- but he must see something on Bugs' face when he looks over, because he pulls off the road without saying a word.

Bugs wastes no time in kicking his way out of the car, collapsing hard onto his knees. His hands catch his fall, gloves snagging against asphalt. Red flashes in the corners of his eyes. He thinks his body's trying to kill him from the inside out, until he figures out it's just the truck's emergency flashers blinking into the night.

He breathes hard. His hands curl against asphalt. He can't see right, he's not -- he can't think, he--

"Buck." Grant's voice is quiet, too kind, too presumptive, and that's not the right name. Bugs reacts -- pulls the gun out of his waistband and points it at Grant where he's crouched down beside him.

"Get away from me." He tastes blood in his mouth. Runs his tongue across his lips.

Grant opens his hands in ready surrender. He doesn't move. He doesn't look threatened. He doesn't so much as fucking flinch. "You're safe with me," he says, insanely. "You understand? I'm not gonna hurt you."

"Get," Bugs growls, "away from me."

"Okay." Grant stands fluidly to his feet and takes a step back, out of arm's reach, but then just crouches again. His hands clasp in front of him as he balances on his haunches. "We're gonna get out of this, both of us, you and me. Alright?"

"Go fuck yourself. I don't care about you."

"You know where you are?"

"Fuck you."

He doesn't talk a while after that. Bugs feels like he's underwater. His arm starts to tremble as it holds up the gun. That doesn't make sense. The goddamned thing is made of steel--

\-- _steel fingers wrap around a man's throat, lift him clear in the air, his feet clearing the floor_ \--

He collapses. The gun clatters against the pavement, his fingers splaying over its grip.

"Hey," comes a voice beside him. "I'm gonna unload your gun, okay? I'm not gonna hurt you. I just want to take the bullets--"

There's no way in hell. He holds it level again, looks at the man. Blond hair, beard, a baseball cap -- right. The fucking idiot who drove him here. 

Grant -- ~~Steve~~ \-- backs off again. Slowly, hands visible, he repositions himself, sitting his ass down on the frozen pavement. He wraps his arms around his own splain knees and then just sits there, watching him, like he's settling the fuck in for a show. "We're gonna figure this out," he mutters.

Bugs toils. He's furious. He doesn't remember what put him here, but he knows he doesn't want to. They were listening to the radio--

\-- _the flash of steel wings_ \--

"Oh, _fuck_." He whispers it desperately. His gun falls to the pavement again; he stares at it, at the way his hand tries to hold it down. Other hands appear, disentangling his fingers from the weapon, and when he looks up he sees Grant staring with even intention. 

He lets it happen. He lets a stranger take his gun. Fuck it, fuck it. If he gets shot, that's how it goes.

Grant only unloads it, the way he says he would. He empties the bullet from the chamber and sets them all together on the ground; sets the empty gun down on his other side. 

Something about the care of the gesture gets to him. Bugs feels like he's drowning again. "I can't," he chokes, then forces a breath. He shakes his head; curls his hands against pavement. Tremors wrack through him. He can't tell if he's gonna be sick. He doesn't want to be sick. He's got food in him he's supposed to keep. "I don't know, I don't know. I don't know what, I don't--"

"It's okay. You don't have to know anything. Just try to breathe, alright?"

"I don't know, I don't -- know any of it, I don't know anything. This world isn't right."

"I -- understand. Believe me."

"It's not right, I don't remember -- I don't--" He hits the pavement with the metal fist he doesn't remember getting. "I don't know--" He hits the pavement again, and again, and again, and again. He hits the pavement until it cracks. "I don't _remember_ , I don't--"

"Okay," Grant says gently, and catches his fist before it falls again. It's as though it was nothing; as though he was catching a free-falling stone. 

Bugs' gaze flies up as he wrenches his arm away. Nobody's supposed to be able to do that. No way anyone's ever matched him in strength. He's the best--

"-- _best assassin this world's ever seen_ \--"

Bugs feels his mouth contort in disgust and suspicion. He looks at Grant and suddenly _hates_ him. He doesn't understand why the fuck this guy's sitting here, waiting out one of his episodes when he doesn't even remember how it--

\-- _two shots in the chest and one in the head. Target neutralized. Next target acquired, pivot, reload_ \--

He presses a palm to his forehead. " _Fuck,_ no. Make it stop, make it -- I don't -- I don't know, I don't _want_ to remember, I don't want it, I don't want this. How do I make it stop, stop, make it stop, how do I--"

"Hey," Grant says. There's something else in his voice, now, something beyond calm. "Okay, let's -- hey, listen to me. Focus on me, okay, just -- do you -- you know, I watched you put away those pancakes pretty good." Then he laughs, but it echoes wrong: panic, maybe, just under the surface. "Everyone's gotta eat. You got a favourite food? I've been catching up with food, or -- something, I dunno, but I guess I missed a lot while I was gone. I like savory things more than sweet. Keep ordering different kinds of steaks--"

"You put three sugars in your coffee."

Grant pauses. He makes a sound in his throat that might've been a laugh, on another day. "Ah -- yeah. Guess I did. They were already open."

"It's just sugar."

"Waste is waste."

"You were gonna order two grand slams and let the other one--"

"I'd have eaten it if you didn't. That was a bluff."

"I know it was a bluff, asshole," he says, then adds -- "Some appetite."

Grant exhales a breathy laugh. "It's been said."

It's working, in a way. Bugs still can't get his limbs to steady, can't seem to get a breath.

"I, uh," Grant says, not long later. He looks to the sky. "I hate to rush you, but you think you're gonna be alright to get back in the car? I'd like to get where I'm going before the sun--"

"Go." He nods down the highway.

The man's brow collapses. "Not without you."

Bugs grimaces, hating him again. He swallows against rising bile. "What the fuck is your deal?" he grits out. "Why are you doing this? You don't know me from Joe--"

"Who would I be to leave you like this? The least I can do is--"

"Oh, Jesus! You think I'm the buddy you left behind, is that it? Do I really have to be the one to break this to you? He's _dead_ , asshole, don't you understand?" His voice breaks; he heaves at him, arms still shaking against the pavement. "He's dead and that's it. That's the end of it, that's the shot you get. You don't get a second chance, I'm not your fucking second _chance._ "

He breathes hard at the pavement another couple times, waiting for Grant to get up and leave, but he doesn't move. When Bugs finally looks at him, he sees Grant just looking back, expression inscrutable on his face.

"You're right," Grant finally says. His tone's become strangled. The movement abrupt, he turns his head and palms at his temple. "I can see that now. But I -- I'm not gonna make the same mistake twice." He looks at Bugs and raises his chin, then says it again, more certain: "I'm not going to make the same mistake twice."

Bugs knows then that he's not gonna get this guy off his back that easy. "What the fuck's it gonna take?" he asks, shattered and torn. "What's it gonna take to get you to leave me alone?"

"When I know you're somewhere warm. When I know you're getting regular meals. Let me drive you where you're going."

"I'm not going anywhere, don't you get it? I'm just going."

He blinks. Then he does understand. "There's shelters--"

"I'm not going to a goddamn shelter."

"Then what's your plan? Keep hitching until you don't?"

"As a matter of fact." He sniffs hard, sits back on his haunches; runs a shaking, gloved hand through his unruly hair. "At least in California it's warm."

Grant nods slowly, lips parting. For a second Bugs thinks he's gonna offer to drive him to California, but he just shakes his head. "Okay," he says. "Then let me take you as far as Denver. I'll buy you a bus ticket, you don't have to hitch."

"I like hitching."

"You like holding a gun and negotiating trade? It won't put me back."

"I'm not your _project_."

"You're down on your luck and you need a hand," Grant says loudly. "Just take it, for God's sake. What's the matter with you? Just take the hand that's offered to you for once in your lousy, miserable life."

Bugs looks at him. Grant holds his eye until Bugs sees the crack. It seems to overtake him, then; Grant shuts his eyes hard, face collapsing into the nest of his arms.

They sit there together on the frozen concrete, twin totems of despair, lit only intermittently by the truck's flashing lights.

"You can take me as far as your meeting," Bugs mutters. Grant raises his head, sets his lips against his wrist. "I'll get off there. I'll -- buy a fucking bus ticket if it means that much to you, but I'm not taking any more of your money."

"You haven't taken my money."

"I will if you keep leaving your wallet just sitting there. You out of your mind? You don't know me at all."

Grant blinks at him a minute. Apart from relieved, he seems almost... _fond._

"We'll get there and then we'll see," Grant says, quiet.

Bugs rolls his eyes. "Fine." He grabs at the open truck door and staggers to his feet. "We'll get there and then we'll see."

  


  


  


  


He lasts ten minutes back in the car before exhaustion claims him into an uneasy sleep.

  


  


  


  


He wakes with a shout, hand braced against the dash.

He doesn't know what woke him. The car isn't moving. It's parked outside a gas station in the middle of nowhere. 

In the far distance, the sun's light just begins to touch the horizon. Behind the pumps lies a vast, sprawling, unmarked network of warehouses. Bugs fights to get his adrenaline down. Grant isn't here. He must be inside, doing whatever the hell business he--

In the near distance, an explosion sets off.

Bugs ducks. He waits. Debris falls hard against the windshield. His hand reaches into his bag, puts the loaded gun in his waistband; reloads the other as fast as he can.

The driver's side opens. Bugs reaches for his loaded gun, but it's Grant -- it's just Grant. His face is filthy; his hands are worse. He's breathing hard as he throws himself into the truck and shuts the door. 

He nods at Bugs where he's crouched behind the dash. "Sorry to wake you," he says mildly. He starts the truck and puts it into gear.

"Sorry to _wake me?_ " Bugs sits up tall and cranes his head behind him as they careen down the road. All he can see is a plume of dark smoke trailing into the sky. "Was that a whole _building_?"

"Ah… yeah." He winces. "Things didn't go exactly as planned." 

It's indifferent, almost nonchalant. Bugs straightens as they peal away, shaking himself clear of the slush of blood in his ears. "They not like what you had to say?"

"Mm… other way around."

Bugs shoots him a glance. "So you're still special forces."

"No, I'm not. That's kinda the point."

"Jesus _Christ._ You blew up someone's base so they'd leave you _alone_?" 

Of all the ways to react, Grant _laughs_ , warm, whole, until it makes him look young. God, he could be so beautiful. He doesn't know why but Bugs keeps on thinking it.

"Yeah, well," Grant says. "Guess we'll see. I got the sneaking suspicion they're gonna get this particular message loud and clear." He glances over his shoulder, as though to check that nobody's following. "I'm just sorry you got lumped into my getaway."

"Used to it." 

Grant doesn't even blink. "How do you feel about crime?"

"Crime? Buddy, I'm equipped to pull a concealed weapon on you from four different places. How do you think I feel about crime?"

"Four?"

Somehow _that's_ the sticking point? "You missed the blade at my ankle."

Grant grins wryly as he swerves them into a barren cornfield. Bugs can see an access road far on the other side. Guy's perceptive, romantic, and an adrenaline junkie to boot? God help them both. Bugs never should've gotten into the car. 

"I wanna steal someone's plates," Grant explains. "But I can drop you off first if you're uncomfortable."

"Still wanna take me into town after all that?"

"A promise is a promise."

Bugs rolls his eyes. "Why stop at plates? Can't we just jack a car?"

"And abandon my truck?"

"The truck's more recognizable than the plates attached." Maybe the guy's not so good at this. 

Grant ultimately shrugs, puts his foot on the gas. He does his level best to gun it across the field, but the truck's too old to do much of anything in the muck. "This thing guzzles gas, anyway."

"Shit getaway car."

"That too."

"How long you been driving this thing?"

"Three years, just about. Fallen apart pretty steadily since then."

"Why'd you buy it in the first place?"

"Well…" He pulls a face. "Speaking of jacking cars."

Bugs smiles, a little incredulous. "You know, I really took you for some straight-laced farmer type--"

"You took me for someone out to get you."

"Well, yeah. Guess I was closer to the truth than I realized."

"Hey, now. I never pretended to be anything but what I am."

"I don't even know your name."

Grant glances at him, then tosses him his wallet from a dashboard compartment. "You really never did pick this up, huh?"

Bugs opens the wallet to a driver's license clearly visible through a clear window -- belonging to a Grant Stevens, born July 4th, 1981. Bugs slides the card out of its compartment, turning it over in his hands, but from all accounts it looks like a legitimate, bona fide Kansas state driver's license. "I guessed your name _right_?"

Grant only smiles.

"What the fuck?"

"In your defense, it seems like you have training in this kind of thing."

"Blind guesswork?"

"Guess I look like a Grant."

"You didn't tell me I got it right."

"Thought we were doing a whole thing. Guessing your name isn't Bugs."

An uneasy pause settles. "I don't remember," he says stiltedly, "my name."

That sobers Grant up. He drives on in silence, swerving off the field and onto the road with uncanny precision. "Sorry," he finally says, gearing up as the wheels gain traction.

"Not your fault." Bugs waves a hand. "I assume."

"That been going on since you got -- out?" Grant asks. "The… forgetting?"

"I… I don't know." He runs an anxious hand through his hair. "I don't know. I don't like thinking about it."

Grant nods, stays quiet a minute. "That's why you got nowhere to go. You don't..."

"Have anything but what I got on my back."

Grant nods, lips pursing, and doesn't speak for a long time.

  


  


  


  


They stash the truck in a broken-down barn that looks like it hasn't been used in a hot decade and walk down the road about fifteen minutes. It's a pleasant enough morning, apart from the cold. Bugs' untimely nap seems to have done him some good. 

Their silence has settled into something companionate, their hasty getaway having brought them together. They're looking for a vehicle Grant's willing to steal. "It has to be a pickup," he announces, "and the cumulative value's gotta be less than two thousand dollars."

"You know that means they don't get as big of an insurance payout, right?"

Grant stares at him. Apparently that had never occurred to Mr. Do-Good Pettycrime.

"On the other hand, cars made after 1996 are generally harder to steal." Bugs nods at the truck in front of them. "This one's probably borderline."

"Let's give it a shot."

The door's even unlocked. On a whim, Bugs flips down the passenger-side visor. The keys fall right out. 

They exchange a glance. It's begging to be stolen. Grant sheds his jacket before getting back into the driver's seat, and it takes Bugs until they're driving again to understand why -- Grant takes off his cap and peels off his t-shirt as they gun down the road. He runs his fingers through his hair, keeping the garments in his lap until they turn some corner, and then throws them out the window into a particularly expansive pile of slowly-freezing muck. 

He stops, reverses, runs over his clothes with the truck. Bugs is weirdly enraptured. Grant's undershirt is filthy, his hair a greasy, overgrown mess, but somehow he still manages to look appealing. It's downright embarrassing, but he's not sure who for. 

Bugs distracts himself by taking his hair out of its tie. He pulls it higher, then reaches into his bag for something to hide it under. He'd change his shirt, too, but then he'd have to explain his fucking metal arm and impressive scarification. 

"Should've saved you my hat," Grant remarks, watching him.

"It's covered," Bugs says. He shoves a toque on his head that reads, _I ♥ CANADA_.

Grant looks at him and laughs -- that barking, joyful thing. "Great. That'll help us blend in."

"Who among us has blown up a building today?" Bugs says loudly, and Grant's laughter doubles down. "Why are we trying to blend in again? What do you farm exactly, fucking semtex?"

Grant blends them casually in with commuting traffic. They get on the highway and there's no telling them from the next guy. It's nice, at first; it puts him at ease. But soon Bugs realizes that it's also gonna take Grant hours to drop him in Denver at this rate. 

"Uh..." He peers down the highway. "Listen." The guy still hasn't slept and it's starting to show. He's gonna need more of his attention on the road the busier things get. "Look, I really..." Bugs clenches his teeth. "I really appreciate everything you've done for me."

Grant smiles. "That was hard for you to get out, huh?"

"Nobody likes a smartass," Bugs bites, and Grant laughs again, smile lingering on his lips. "I just -- you've done more than enough, and this traffic is killer. It's a short walk into town--"

He frowns his disagreement. "It'll take you hours."

"It'll take _you_ hours. I can hitch if I need to, just -- don't make the trip unnecessarily."

"A promise is a--"

"A promise doesn't mean shit between two people who met eight hours ago," he says fiercely, "and we never promised anything, so just -- look, alright? I'm putting my foot down. Let me off here and go home like you want."

"I'd rather see you off."

"No. Forget it. Enough is enough. You can't keep me hostage, pull the fuck off the road. I mean it, I'm done."

Grant sighs hard, but he takes the next exit. Tension leaves Bugs' body as Grant parks in a gas station and turns off the truck. 

"Listen," Grant says. He watches as Bugs reorganizes his belongings in his sack; as he pulls up a pistol, makes sure it winds up at the top of his bag. "I, uh... I'm gonna make you an offer, and it's gonna seem forward. But I mean it honestly. You don't have to take me up on it."

Bugs cringes. "Come on, man, just let a ride be a--"

"I need an extra hand," Grant says over him, "on my farm. For the winter. I've got this harvest and I don't know how to even start dealing with it."

"I don't know anything about--"

"I don't either." Grant shrugs. "I'm not a farmer. I mean, I _am_ a farmer, but I don't know the first thing about farms. I grew up in Brooklyn, for God's sake. Before the Army I worked stocking shelves. I bought this land two years ago on a whim because it was cheap and because I didn't know a single living soul in Kansas, and this year I actually have -- surplus. I wasn't joking about having too many cows. Two of mine escaped to the neighbouring farm and they both came back pregnant. I don't know how to deliver cows. Do they deliver themselves?"

He's talking too much. Bugs waves a hand in the air. "It's not that I don't appreciate--"

"I've got corn out the ass. I've got sunflowers drying in the actual _hundreds_ in a barn I've retrofitted with space heaters. I have no idea if that's the right thing to do, but it's the thing I'm doing. I half-expect to come home to my barn being on fire, and by the way, the power bill sucks."

"Look--" 

"If I do manage to dry these things without setting them on fire, I somehow still have to get those seeds out of the flowers, shell them, and figure out how to sell them wholesale. Do I shell them? Will they sell better unshelled? Is that the right terminology? If they have the shells on them, aren't they still shelled? How do I get them out of the sunflower in the _first place_?"

"Just slow down--"

"I planted... winter wheat? I don't know what winter wheat is or how it differs from summer wheat. I owned a plant once and it died in my musty apartment in what I swear must be a national record, so I am absolutely, completely overwhelmed by my sudden success as a farmer."

"Would you stop talking and listen to me?" Bugs shouts at him. "You're crazy. I don't know shit about farms. I don't know what I did before I was -- whatever I was, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't keeping anything alive."

"I don't care. I just don't want to try to figure it out by myself anymore."

"There's a better hire for this. I'm not desperate enough to be tempted by the first--"

"I'm not offering charity," Grant says, before Bugs can even get there. "I'm offering lodging and cash in exchange for labour."

"You need advice from a _farmer_."

"I need someone to help me shell my fucking sunflower seeds."

"I don't think you do that by hand."

"Then I need someone with a sharper eye than me to make sure I don't get swindled when I go out to buy a shelling machine."

Bugs rolls his eyes and raises a leg to kick open the door, but this door opens fine on its own. "I pitched this badly," Grant mutters behind him. "One last try. I need a farmhand. You need work and a place to stay. You wanna talk about fair exchange? That sounds like a fair exchange to me."

Bugs looks at him across the seats. "Thought you said I don't owe you anything."

"You don't. It's an offer and that's it." But he clams up at the look on Bugs' face. "Alright. If you want to turn it down, fine. Just..." He grabs his wallet from the cupholder.

"I'm not taking your money."

"I'm trying to give you my phone number." He reaches over to the glove compartment in the hopes of finding a pen, gets lucky; scribbles his number on the back of a random business card. "Here. You change your mind, find yourself in a tight spot, or you need somewhere to crash -- couple days, few weeks, the winter, or just for a hot meal or a shower -- you get in touch, alright? Don't think twice about it. You've got a friend in the world when you need one."

Bugs stares a while. Then, delicately, he takes it between two gloved fingers. "Thank you."

Grant nods, looking at him with a strange expression. Like pity, but different. "It's a landline. Call back if I don't answer, I'm just not home."

"You have a landline in 2014?"

"I only have a landline in 2014." He smiles thinly. "Don't trust computers, especially not since--"

He cuts off in time, but Bugs intuits the end of the sentence: people are a lot more skeptical about technology than they used to be, especially after the Helicarrier Massacre.

He manages to keep a grip on himself. Funny how these memories stay with him even when he has no idea what the hell he's remembering. "Pull over and take a nap at some point, alright?" Bugs says, slinging his bag over his shoulder by the strap. "You look more like shit every minute."

Grant smiles. Somehow Bugs had known that he would. "Safe travels," Grant says. "I'm glad I… met you."

"Yeah," Bugs says, looking at him scrutinously. "You... too. I guess. Thanks for..." But he trails off; takes the door in his hand. "Just try not to blow up any more buildings on your way home, alright?"

Grant's laugh gets cut off when Bugs slams the door, but that dry, hacking sound still fuels him awhile.

  


  


  


  


The social worker at the shelter asks him his name, and he doesn't even hesitate before saying "Bugs Moran." It's stupid, sentimental; he'll start leaving a trail if he's not careful. But a name's never quite stuck with him like this one before.

  


  


  


  


He lands a day's work, and then another one. The shelter's not bad, but he can't shake the feeling there's eyes on him at all times. He still hates these things, but the weather's broken into the first major cold snap of the year and he's not prepared to sleep through it on the streets. He'd thought that he would be, but it sits in his bones a little too deep.

In spite of the winter, he thinks about finding a flophouse in Denver -- or elsewhere nearby, where it's bound to be cheaper. He has enough money to get to California, but he can't seem to bring himself to buy the ticket. He doesn't know what's keeping him here. The weather's the pits, but the mountains seem familiar. Snowcapped and infinite, a homecoming call.

There's not much by way of opportunity here; not as winter sets in. He really should move on.

  


  


  


  


_Just take the hand that's offered to you,_ Grant's stupid voice sounds off in his head, _for once in your lousy, miserable life._

  


  


  


  


The answering machine message is just Grant pretending not to know how to use the thing. It's smart. He never lists his name, but people who know his voice will know they're in the right place. Trouble is that every time Bugs gets through that bumbling, profanity-laden message, he can't think of a single goddamn thing to say. Eventually he writes down some talking points, but something lodges in his throat when he thinks about how the hell he's going to explain his bionic arm. If he fucks it up -- if Grant figures out he was involved in the Helicarrier Massacre -- then he'll be in trouble and stranded in Kansas, right back where he began.

He's most of the way through deciding to hang up when the message ends to a click on the other end.

"Hello?"

That's Grant's voice live, no doubt about it. Bugs becomes a mute and an idiot in the space of a second. His mouth stalls open, phone card tensed between his fingers.

"Hello?"

He's gotta say something.

"...Moran?"

Oh, thank God. "Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, sorry. It's me."

It's hard to make out the sound Grant gives, but a distant ding and some shifting suggests he might actually have a rotary telephone. "Hey," Grant says, breathy. Bugs grins, leans his head against the wall. "Hey, hi. Good to, uh... hear from you. How's it going?"

"Yeah, I'm good. I, uh…" He stalls, rubs at his temple. "How's your… sunflowers?"

Grant's breath breaks with laughter. "Uh -- you know, I haven't even looked at them. I've been…" He pauses. "I've been out of town, unexpectedly."

There's something about the words he's using that makes him think the line's not secure. Bugs winces and presses on, against his better judgment. "But... you're back. Now."

"For a while, yeah."

"Good."

"Hope so." There's a smile in it. "How are you doing? Calling from sunny California?"

"No, actually. I found some work in Denver, so I stuck around awhile."

"Oh, yeah? That's great."

"Only it's... well, it's dried up, now, and I, uh..." He's not sure how to say this. He's not sure how the fuck to even talk to the guy. "Y'know I keep fucking thinking about--" He sighs hard. "If we just hit those sunflowers hard enough over a plastic tub or something, I figure most of the seeds are bound to fall right out."

All he hears is inscrutable shifting on the other end of the line; then, finally, Grant lets out the tail end of a laugh. "You know?" he says. "I think it might be worth a shot. Maybe you should come show me your vision."

"I mean, if there's one thing I'm definitely great at, it's hitting things."

"Something we have in common." The phone dings like it's moving again. "Whereabouts are you in Denver?"

"I'll catch a bus, get off in Salina. Maybe tomorrow?"

"Don't waste your money. Give me an intersection, I'll come get you now."

Bugs stares into the distance. "Grant."

"Give. Me. An Intersection. I'll be there in five hours."

"It's a six hour drive."

"I'll be there in five hours."

  


  


  


  


He gives him an intersection. 

Grant's there in five hours.

  


  


  


  


**ii.**

The farm is -- nice. It's _rustic_ , or whatever the hell. It's properly positioned smack-dab in the middle of goddamn nowhere and Bugs knows for a fact no one's going to think to look for him here. It's as unassuming a place in the world to be as any other. If Grant's goal was to hide, he certainly succeeded.

Bugs likes the work. He likes the exhaustion. He likes getting up at dawn and having a list of things to do. He likes that his tasks require him to move and not think. He likes Grant's easy company; likes figuring this shit out. Grant really doesn't know the first thing about his farm. It's strange as hell, but at least they're not bored.

The sunflower barn's full of loose seeds when they first walk in. Grant seems both surprised and delighted. Far from needing to hit them, Bugs just runs his hand over the head of one of them, digs his nails in a little, and half the seeds fall right out.

Grant closes his mouth and looks at him solemnly. "I swear they didn't do that before."

"Did you harvest them early?"

Grant gestures in the air like he has no earthly idea. It doesn't matter anyway. They harvest the seeds, eat more than a few raw along the way. They wind up with a decent crop -- or so it seems to them, two assholes who don't know anything. Grant sells the works to a manufacturer, and that is that.

Then there's the corn. It needs to be hauled. There's some equipment that needs to be fixed. Bugs really likes that work; it turns out he likes machines. Who'd have--

" _What_?"

Grant snatches at his arm in the middle of a belt replacement, when Bugs sheds his outer shirt without thinking. He got relaxed. He's too comfortable here. It'd probably been a matter of time. 

Bugs tries to explain anyway. He must have lost his arm on the ground. He doesn't remember how. He doesn't know who gave him the prosthetic. It's partially true, but he doesn't mention Hydra. It's better to give as little information about himself as possible.

Grant takes it all in with a solemn nod. He doesn't say anything; just accepts every word with a furrowed brow. When Bugs stops to wait for the hammer to fall, Grant steps forward instead of back. "Does it," he asks, then licks his lips nervously. "Is it…?"

"It still feels," he says, then knocks on it to prove the point. "Shudder to think what they did to my nerves, but they sure as shit did something."

"Does it _hurt_."

Bugs shrugs, trying for casual. "Only when I use it a lot."

Grant nods, looks at him. Then suddenly he makes an excuse about errands. He gets in his truck and leaves all night, and still isn't back when Bugs wakes up the next morning.

Bugs expects he'll never come back so long as he's still here. He does the morning busywork; feeds the cows, packs up his shit. He's halfway through penning a note of inadequate thanks when Grant's truck comes barreling back down the drive. 

"Where you going?" he asks as he exits, looking concerned Bugs is thinking of leaving at all. It's like nothing happened, like he didn't see his arm and suddenly take off. 

It's a little too perfect for Bugs not to suspect, but he lets Grant talk him back inside after a while. Then he lets him make him breakfast. Then he lets him make him dinner. 

Then, the next day, he gets up and keeps fixing the combine. 

Grant never mentions his prosthetic again, but something changes between them. No longer worried about hiding himself physically away, Bugs starts accepting the offer when Grant suggests cards after dinner. Bugs has always known, inexplicably, how to deal himself a hand of Solitaire; he does a lot of that while Grant's cooking, just to have something to do with his hands. He remembers Rummy; seems to have something in his head called Ratscrew, which they abruptly stop playing when Bugs comes down on Grant's hand with his prosthetic. Over time they ascertain he also knows Bridge and Euchre, and wind up shelving Poker altogether owing to Grant's inability to lie for his life.

At some point Bugs gets tired of both Solitaire and pestering Grant to let him help cook, so he peruses his bookshelves. There's a lot there about history and politics -- like, a metric _fuckton_. A guy could get lost in that much real-world material and never emerge. But he also has a pretty respectable paperback collection, most of them published at least fifty years back. Bugs avoids the politics like they carry the plague, but starts burning through the novels at a pretty advanced rate. There's something about them that evokes some feeling in him -- a bizarre sense of longing, almost nostalgic. He chases it down, but he can't figure it out. Either he was an avid reader in a previous life or he's the kind of man to feel affinity with a time long dead. 

Living here in Grant's house, sometimes it does feel like a time long dead. The guy really does use a rotary telephone. Sometimes a laptop sits on the table, but Bugs never sees him use it. The kitchen by itself feels like it's out of a museum -- the fridge small, with rounded corners; the range analog, as are his clocks. There's a 13" television in the corner of a living room flanked with bookshelves; attached to the television is a goddamned VCR. The house contains duelling eras, but Grant himself somehow ties it together. He embodies the paradox. It's weird, but not fake. Grant just doesn't give a fuck about the modern world.

Still -- some questions need answers. 

"What the hell's a grain farmer doing with cows?" Bugs finally asks.

Grant glances behind him, hand still poised on the skillet where he's searing a steak. "Soil's nitrogen-poor," he says, as though it should be obvious. He'd gone out overnight again and looks like he hasn't slept, but at least he seems at ease. He came back with groceries, like groceries are what necessitate a sixteen-hour absence in the dead of the night.

"You needed fertilizer," Bugs says slowly, "so you bought cows?"

"Well... yeah."

"You know you can just… buy fertilizer."

"Cows eat the grain, shit the grain out, help the grain grow. Symbiosis, or something."

"You pay to keep cows purely because you like the idea of a self-sustaining farm."

Grant points at the door with his tongs. "You want to go out and meet a man about his shit supply? You see how you enjoy lengthy conversations about saleable nitrogen."

"So now it's my responsibility to get your soil up to snuff."

"You're the one talking shit about my cows," Grant says, and when the rag Grant throws lands squarely on his face, a weak, coughing laugh fights its way from Bugs' lungs before he can tamp it down.

  


  


  


  


He might've guessed it was too good to last.

After a month of hot meals and hot showers, of card games and bookshelves, of not thinking about much but engines and corn, he's left scrambling against siding when he hears a voice he doesn't recognize.

"--won't even discuss--"

"There's nothing to discuss," comes Grant's cold reply. It's a woman's voice; that doesn't mean Grant's pulling his punches. "I told Fury three years ago I'm not interested in joining."

"Things have changed since the massacre. SHIELD's out from under Hydra's control--"

Bugs takes in a sharp breath and crouches fast, fingers clenching hard against air. His adrenaline picks up the way it hasn't in weeks. He really hadn't expected this -- that's the worst part. He'd known Grant was up to something but he never thought anyone would follow him here.

He's lost track of the conversation. His heart's beating too loud. He's stays frozen, petrified. When finally he forces a grip on his breathing again, he spins slowly over and chances a glance through the nearest window to see if he can tell what's going on from within. 

Through the kitchen, barring the front door with an arm, Grant stands in front of a redheaded woman. Bugs can't see her face, but their body language says enough: this conversation is hostile. Grant doesn't want her here.

"Let me finish," floats the woman's voice.

"I don't have to do that," Grant replies tersely. "Vacate my property. Forget where I live. You're getting nothing out of me."

"I'm telling you it's different--"

"If you believe that, then you really have no idea what Hydra's capable of."

Bugs feels static grow louder in the back of his mind. He forces himself to pay attention as the woman clicks her tongue. 

"If you don't want to join, at least stop going after our bases."

"No," says Grant.

A tense pause follows. Bugs watches as the woman paces a little on the spot, arms crossed over her chest. "I have to tell you," she says. "I don't understand your position."

"You don't have to understand it. You just have to respect it."

"You're willing to go vigilante on the only organization that's fighting Hydra, but somehow not willing to--"

"I'll stop you there, Miss -- Romanoff, is it?"

" _Agent_ Romanoff. I'm giving you that name as a courtesy. I won't use yours if you don't use mine."

"Fine. Agent. Allow me to remind you whose technology was behind the Helicarrier Massacre in the first place. Your organization--"

" _Hydra_ was behind the attack."

"Not in question. I believe that, ma'am, more than you know. It wouldn't be the first time Hydra coordinated the execution of hundreds of thousands of innocent people, and I doubt it'll be the last. But the reason your colleagues are currently awaiting trial--"

"--is because of a misapplication of blame--"

"-- _is because they were complicit._ SHIELD is complicit. They are _still_ complicit in Hydra's crimes for as long as they continue to develop technology that is easily exploited. For better or for worse, your organization believed they were delivering a kindness upon the world when they made an all-seeing machine capable of killing 720,000 people with the press of a button. I've made the mistake of working for such 'well-meaning' powers before, and I swear on my ill-begotten life that I will never make the same mistake again."

"SHIELD--" 

"--is a puppet for Hydra's machinations. It was nine months ago, and it is still today. As long as you continue to manufacture weapons under the guise of doing good, Hydra will take advantage of you every step of the way. You will be blind to it and helpless to it. All you're doing is helping them."

"You have to fight fire with fire."

"Ma'am, I absolutely agree. That's why I've been bombing the hell out of your research labs."

They stare at each other a long time. Neither one of them budges, an immovable pair.

"The world needs heroes," the agent says.

"I'm no hero."

"That's not what the history books say."

"Take it from an expert: the history books don't know what the hell they're talking about."

"The war you began--"

"Is still being fought. You don't think I know that? Do you think, Agent, that I don't have eyes in my head? It was fought in the decades I wasn't there to help. I gave my life to end this war, and it wasn't enough. I'd ask what hope you think I can rightfully offer the world if I'm being supported by an org with 720,000 assassinations to its name."

"Captain--" 

"There's no Captain here. Listen to me closely: all I'm hearing is you offering me resources I don't want to use and asking me to make sacrifices I don't want to make. I'm telling you: no deal. I won't be made a monkey of again, Agent Romanoff. If you're looking for a figurehead to lie to America about keeping them safe, you'll have to look elsewhere. Now get off my property. Don't contact me again."

The woman holds her ground.

"You're missing the mark," she tells him, quieter. "You're targeting a proxy. I know you know that. Stop focusing on our defenses and focus on Hydra. SHIELD's not hurting anyone."

"Yet."

The woman shifts a little to the side. Bugs ducks down, shutting his eyes. His mind is racing. He isn't armed. He'd bet money she is.

"If I were you, ma'am," Grant says, voice growing deep, "I'd take the time to reflect on your own allegiances. I can see you know I'm right. You won't ever get anyone to trust a name like SHIELD again."

"Renaming the effort doesn't solve the problem," she says. "And neither does hiding away."

"I aim to do neither."

"Well," she says, irony inflecting in her tone. "We can't all be vigilantes." 

Another tense silence. Finally, Bugs hears the shuffling of the agent's feet against the porch. He scrambles away to the other side of the house, desperate for his footfalls not to be heard in the snow.

"Forget my name," he hears Grant say. "Forget my address. I don't ever want to see you here again."

"You won't," she says, but there's something in her voice Bugs doesn't like. "You left a light on in your guesthouse, by the way."

"Yeah," he says flatly. "Thanks."

Bugs holds his breath until the woman gets in her car and drives away.

Slowly, the world sears back into vivid focus. He takes thick gulps of air as slides to his feet. He has to pack; that's the first thing. Guesthouse, then road. See which way she went, go the other--

A hand grasps at his arm.

Bugs whirls around, fist drawn back -- but it's Grant, it's just Grant. The guy brandishes open hands in surrender, like always.

Bugs lets his arm fall. "What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?" 

"Sorry." Grant studies Bugs' face. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough." Bugs turns, walks away. "I'm getting the fuck out of here before she brings backup. If you know what's good for you, don't follow."

Grant's feet crunch after him in the snow. "Bucky -- wait."

Bugs whirls in place. "Who the hell is Bucky?" he asks, mouth thin. His voice shakes despite his efforts. "Have you still not figured out I'm not your dead boyfriend?"

Grant stands there, shoulders falling as though he's been struck. Bugs spins away. Far from discouraged, Grant grabs at his arm. 

Bugs wrenches free, furious now. "What the fuck's your _problem_?"

"B -- Look, just -- listen to me. She wasn't looking for you. She was looking for _me,_ she wanted to recruit _me._ She didn't even know you were here--"

"She knew someone was or she wouldn't have said that line about the guesthouse! She was threatening you, tell me you get that!"

Grant just looks at him, dumbly agape. "Just... can we talk about--"

Bugs makes a harsh noise in his throat and turns away again. 

When Grant turns him back, it's with flaring frustration. There's that lurking strength again, the kind Bugs never sees. It's still always there, under the surface. 

Bugs doesn't like it. His defenses strike hard. He shoves Grant backward, watches his face light with shock. "What do you know about Hydra?" Bugs shouts at him. It's halfway to screaming; his voice shatters brutally. Someone could hear them, but he can't find the lid. "Why are you so dead set on keeping me here, huh? Did you know that's who's after me?"

Grant's mouth opens, then shuts again. "I guessed," he finally admits, quiet. "Let's get inside, talk about this where it's--"

"You don't get it," Bugs bites off. "I hear the name _Hydra_ , I get the fuck out of dodge. I'm not going inside or anywhere with you, not while they're after you. You're poison to me."

Complex emotion sets over Grant's face. "I -- look. They're not gonna get you, alright? I won't let them."

Bugs feels his eyes bug with incredulity. "Do _you_ know what they're capable of? You think they give a single fuck about a guy on his farm? They'll take you out before you even know they're there!"

"Then you'll know they're there, and you'll get out fine. Let me serve as your first defense."

Bugs rends fingers in his hair. "God! You're actually _choosing_ naïveté because of a batshit savior complex--"

"I told you before, I'm not trying to save anyone. I'm trying to give you a _unit_. Don't you remember what it was like--"

"No!" he shouts back. "I don't fucking remember! I don't remember anything, they took that from me! Don't you get that? Don't you understand that they took all I was? Why would I wait for them to come and take it again?"

Grant's breath has turned heavy, curling to the sky in furious bursts. "So you're just gonna go back out into the world alone, is that it? No one watching your back, just waiting for the day they track you down?"

"You know what? It worked before."

"I could see your ribs through your shirt. I don't think it was exactly working."

"Yet no one knocked on my door to say Hydra was coming."

"Hydra doesn't know this place. Hydra doesn't even know I still exist."

Bugs shakes his head, mouth sour. "Were you listening to your own conversation?"

"One SHIELD agent -- look, this is semantics. These are the facts." He counts them off on his fingers. "An organization claiming they've purged Hydra out looked for _me_ , found _me_. They're not looking for you, Buck. An organization who is _fighting_ Hydra is looking for _me_ , not -- Jesus. C'mon, don't--" He must see something on Bugs' face, because he steps forward with a reaching a hand. Bugs ducks it; Grant only reaches again. This time his palm finds his jaw. Bugs shuts his eyes against the feeling of cold fingers grasping at the back of his neck. His chin won't stop quaking no matter what he does to quell it. "There's not a single living soul who knows where you are apart from me," Grant says, low. "Listen to me. I will never, ever give you up. Not to them; not to anyone else. Understand?"

"You," Bugs whispers, harsh, "won't have a goddamned _choice_ \--"

"I know Hydra," Grant interrupts. "I've fought Hydra. I gave up years of my life to bringing them down. I know what I look like, but I think you know better. Trust me when I say I can take five of them on by myself if I have to. That makes me uniquely qualified to watch your back -- hey, _listen_ to me." He guides Bugs back when he threatens to turn away. "I'm not saying I can beat them, but I can at least slow them down. This is what I do. This is what _units_ do. I won't let them take you, B--" Emotion crests, inscrutable, then dies on his face. "Please stay. I swear on my life they won't take you from here. You don't have to take on this world alone."

Somehow, Bugs can't get his feet to move. He can't find it in him to turn away. Worse, he doesn't want to. He wants so badly for Grant to be right.

They both breathe a while. Finally he reaches to take Grant's hand from his face. His fingers squeeze gently at the palm of his hand; linger a second before he lets go. "We need a plan," he says quietly, throat hoarse from shouting. He can hardly believe the words are coming out of his mouth. "I need you to tell me what you know, what… your intel is. On Hydra."

"Okay," Grant says. He nods to the kitchen, hope piquing at his brow. "I'll put on coffee."

Bugs stands there a minute, looking for deception; looking for something that'll tell him to run. But all he can see is some earnest man who, for some godforsaken reason, sees something in him worth fighting for.

Grant waits with him in his awful indecision. Then, wordless, they walk together into the warm yellow light.

  


  


  


  


"I was appointed leader of a special forces unit tasked with taking them down," Grant begins, pausing to grind beans. From the amount he put in, he seems to be of no illusions of sleep either. "We located, infiltrated, ultimately demolished a number of covert Hydra bases for… a few years. Overseas. In an active warzone." He waves a hand; Bugs assumes the details are classified. "But now…" Grant trails off, shaking his head. "Long story short, I got forcibly extracted from the conflict for... a while, and from what I can discern, they don't work the way they used to. Hydra still organizes underground, but they work in plain sight. Tendrils in every corner. Their headquarters are one and the same with America's foremost institutions, and there's no knowing where one ends and the other begins. It's impossible to…"

He looks off into the distance, his jaw clenching as though in regret. Then he refocuses. "SHIELD tried to recruit me when I came back," he goes on, "and I took one look at their operations and decided against it. They wanted a commander, a face to put on their cause to be able to call it just, but I'd already failed at their mission. I'd given up everything for the cause before, and it wasn't enough."

"You didn't fail," Bugs tells him, voice coarse. "It's not down to one man."

Grant looks at him sharply and finally nods, like some gleam of truth's been found he didn't want to see. "Maybe you're right. But there's no movement big enough. Most people don't even know what Hydra is."

"Tell me about it."

He gives a faint smile. "You know what I'm trained for? I look at something and I decide if it looks like Hydra or not. A nameless building, a documents without labels… that I can recognize. But I looked at SHIELD, and I didn't see Hydra. They were crawling with Hydra agents, and I couldn't see a single one." He sighs, grabs the kettle. "That's what we're dealing with. The man best trained in the world to identify Hydra couldn't see them when they were standing in front of him. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is equipped to take Hydra down. It'd mean the collapse of our foremost institutions."

"You sure that's a problem?"

"Well…" A glint in his eye. "I know what you mean, but I don't exactly want to carry the legacy of a collapsed nation on my shoulders. Never know how many folks rely on those institutions, even if they do bleed evil."

Bugs smiles. "You been a socialist this whole time?"

Grant smiles, too. He sets the coffee pot down in the middle of the table and flips a mug down in front of him with calm, steady hands. "You asked me for a plan," Grant says, sitting down. "But I can only tell you what I already know, and the only thing I know is the approximate location of a handful of SHIELD technology labs from a three-second look at a half-concealed map. I've been to a few within driving distance, but they seem to've been abandoned for the most part." He shakes his head. "I do think that agent was right about one thing. It doesn't make sense to keep trying to bring down SHIELD."

"You sure?"

"It's one branch, one..." His eyes slide out of focus. "Head."

Bugs watches him process something unnamed, then shakes his head and sighs. "Look -- SHIELD built the helicarriers. They've built a hell of a lot more that's weaponizable, too; things the public doesn't know about." He's accessing info he doesn't know where he got. All he knows is that he doesn't want to remember more than he does. Grant seems to go rigid; maybe he doesn't want to hear it, either. "I'm trying to say that SHIELD is -- _still_ \-- positioned pretty damn well for a Hydra takeover. You weren't wrong to target them."

"No. But it's delaying dealing with the actual problem."

"You mean the one with no solution."

Grant opens his mouth, then closes it again. He gives Bugs a look he doesn't like. "Wh--" he begins, but stops almost at once. He cringes hard, turns his empty mug in his hand. "When you remember--"

Bugs gets what he's asking. "No."

Grant waits a minute. "It sounds like you have--"

"Nope."

He doesn't move a while. "Okay."

"I don't remember anything," Bugs says heatedly, hating every second of Grant's weary acceptance. "I get flashes of things where I don't know what's going on and that's it, that's all. I don't -- get -- I don't get -- _it_ , anything, any of it. Alright? I don't know a goddamned thing."

"Alright," Grant says, hand aloft. He doesn't ask again.

They sit there in silence long into the night.

  


  


  


  


They don't make a plan. There's no plan to make. Bugs is too incapacitated by the delicate state of living to offer more on Hydra than what he unwittingly gives. Grant, meanwhile, only knows what he's already been after with SHIELD, so there's nothing to do. There's nowhere to go. They can't tear the beast down without sending the world with it.

There are, meanwhile, endless chores that need tending on the farm. The tractor runs slow, the cows need feeding. Bugs stays for the purpose, for the steadiness of work. There's always something, day after day. He carries a gun in his waistband again, puts a blade back along the seam of his sock. He has a damn heart attack every time there's a car in the driveway, but it's just Grant; it's always Grant. 

Grant doesn't disappear overnight anymore. Bugs knows it's to keep off suspicion, for his sake. He also suspects Grant goes to different towns just to pick up groceries for the same damn reason. He's working hard to stay elusive -- for him. It's for him. He knows that, and yet the only thing Bugs gives him in return is endless suspicion and regular inspections of the truck for trackers. It's not a good look, but Grant doesn't comment. 

January goes. No one comes. February breaks. No one comes. His vigilance settles, day by fragile day.

Maybe Grant was telling the truth. Maybe nobody knows he's here. Maybe hiding on a stranger's farm is what he should've done from the start.

Or maybe Grant's a particular breed. Maybe he happened to find the one person on earth who wants to put up with his shit, for whatever hell-born reason, and can defend him while he's at it. Grant accepts Bugs' vigilance. He accepts his bad habits. He accepts it when Bugs checks the door to see if it's locked, when he pulls the curtains, when he sometimes gets up just to walk around the house. Bugs is always welcomed back with warmth and a smile. It's like nothing can faze him, no matter what Bugs does.

They start falling into rhythms, start to make new ones. Enough times watching Grant make them food and Bugs starts to cook, too. Basic things like scrambled eggs, with aspirations of vegetables. 

He's not the only one that's paranoid. Grant wakes up the first time Bugs tries to make breakfast and comes down the stairs with a hand behind his back, straightening out with bleary surprise at the sight of him.

"What are you doing?" Grant asks.

He looks charmingly stupid. Bugs has never seen him sleepy before. He's also never seen him quite so without a shirt. "Making breakfast," he says, forcing his gaze away. "Is that a gun?"

"It's," he says, then holds out a flashlight. "Sorry. I thought you were SHIELD."

"They break into your home and woo you with breakfast?"

"Don't think they haven't tried," he says, and goes back upstairs to salvage some pants.

It's for the better. The eggs are drying. Bugs stares at the stairs a long time before remembering he's supposed to stir. They develop a film but taste alright. 

Grant smiles at him like it's the best gift that he could get. Bugs didn't even buy the food; he badly made Grant his own fucking food, and the guy somehow acts like he's been offered a miracle.

At some point, the state of figuring Grant out turns into preoccupation of a different kind. He's -- _compelled._ That's the best word for it. Investigation into Grant's intentions and mannerisms start to acquire affiliated desires. He likes to watch the flex of his shoulderblades while he cooks; feels somehow bereft when Grant starts without him. He likes their fleeting moments of familiarity, when Grant's hand sets at his back as he passes behind. Bugs' head clears in moments like that. He feels more like a person and less like a rat. He thinks back to that night when the agent was here and the way Grant calmed him down with a hand at his neck, as though to convey something words would evade. 

He flushes, inexplicably, to think of the feeling of Grant's skin against him. Just a glancing touch like that and he returns to it, again and again, like it mattered. Like he wasn't _only_ trying to get him to stay. 

The warmth of his embarrassment is an unexpected source of heat against the cold sting of winter. Figuring Grant out is an act of utility. That's all it is.

He'd love to believe that. But the true effects of his interest become quickly apparent. He's spent the last few weeks discovering a libido he has no memory of and barely understands. Ten months of nothing and now he thinks about Grant, in his clothes and out of them, on his back and covered in grease as he's changing a fan belt and that's all it takes. It doesn't make sense. He's fucked into his hand by now enough times to lose count and every time he does he's thinking of Grant, his face, his smell, those calloused hands, that impossible body.

He thinks of how Grant's gaze lingers on him before flitting away, once in a while. The guy might be a terrible liar, but he can sure force neutrality when he puts his mind to it. Bugs has crawled into enough trucks by now to know there's half a dozen looks a guy can give you that lets you know what's on his mind, but Grant wears none of them. The only thing that gives him away is some fire in eyes, a flicker at his temples that suggests self-flagellation. 

It's... kind of innocent. No, it's not innocent. It's that, like everything else about him, it feels strangely earnest, devoid of malice. Far from predatory, it just feels… honest. 

It'd be easier to read him if he wasn't so private. There's no photos in the house, nothing to indicate family or friends. There are no other clues about how he's inclined. The guy's an enigma. 

Bugs is stuck not knowing what the fuck the looks mean. He grows committed to answers. He decides on trial and error -- finds excuses to wear fewer layers, trying to evoke something out of him that's easy to read.

Previously a gift, Grant's steadiness newly becomes a burden. Bugs, for his part, tries not to be obvious. Finally, throwing caution to the wind, he once uses the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat from his brow -- and _that's_ when Grant notices, his eyes falling to Bugs' torso, lips parting just a slight. He looks up and sees Bugs looking at him and then blinks down to the floor, turning away. 

Grant goes back to his tasks, but a palpable tension fills the room. 

It's as honest a reaction as Bugs is going to get. He finds it's more than good enough. His brain speed picks up with the thrill of conjecture. Bugs starts to live for the cracks in Grant's steady demeanor; he fosters them a little, tries to see where they're sourced. He flexes a bit unnecessarily from time to time just to watch Grant turn abruptly away. He feels like an asshole, but there's so much to learn. It's... interesting. _Scientifically_ interesting. He thinks of Grant's hands holding him to a wall and groans aloud before he can stop it, but that, too, is really for science.

Science, however, does not have answers for how the hell the guy's so _strong_. He is really… really strong, but he uses it for good. A man with that much power is, apparently, kind. What's that about? Throw in the way that he moves, and -- oh, _God_ , the way he moves. He thinks about what Grant would be like when he let himself _want_. Would restraint crumble slowly into that flaring intensity pushed under the surface? What is he like when desire's let loose? Bugs wants to know. He wants, he wants… he thinks, _Jesus,_ he thinks about all the times they've stepped around each other -- while working, while cooking, when doing neither, just to be close. He thinks of the way the air condenses, like there's something between them, as though Grant wants to reach out as much as Bugs wants him to. He wants -- _ah_ \-- wants Grant to whirl Bugs around and put his mouth -- _fuck_ , wherever he wants, whatever he wants, he wants, he wants--

Bugs burns with the weight of scientific interest most nights of the week. He lies alone in the man's own guesthouse and jacks off to the image of that spark in his eyes. 

The only sexual desire that exists in his mind is for a person who provides for his life. If that's not an indication of his adled mindset, he's not sure what is.

Bugs might be far gone, but he's also not stupid. He knows when to cover. He gets up each morning, forgets how he spent the night before. He thanks Grant for breakfast he made. He averts his gaze from the sling of his hips and thinks of the best way to rebuild the cow shed. 

That's another thing. The man's like a Greek god, with a house and a life and some low-key self-possession, and Bugs is… well. He's a man out of luck. He's a paranoid vagrant with a bad constitution. He's scarred all to hell and got a big metal arm, and no explanation for either one. He's got a name he forgets and a price on his head.

It's not going to happen. No way it'll happen. There's no way that it should. He's grateful enough for what he has.

  


  


  


  


Something pulls up in his mind one night about yorkshire pudding.

He's reading a book that mentions Christmas dinner and he's probably Catholic, the more he thinks about that. Then he starts to think about yorkshire pudding. It comes out of nowhere, leaves him staring at the wall. His mother used to make it. 

_He has a mother._

He thinks... _he_ could probably make it. _It needs too many eggs._ No, it doesn't. They have enough eggs. He goes into the house and starts taking out ingredients, then realizes suddenly it'll taste like shit without gravy to go with it. He starts amassing enough for a whole damn meal. He finally feels his adrenaline pare down once he finds the ingredients he wants, and this -- he can handle. He's uncovered a memory he can do something about.

He stalls; forces himself to calm. He stands at the counter and breathes, hands balled in fists. He was someone, once. He had a mom, a _life_. He wasn't always a mass murderer trying to outrun himself. He'd suspected it was true, but now he knows for sure. 

Strange elation leaves him trembling, keeps him off-kilter. He reaches for carrots, chops them into sticks. Something about food preparation feels warm to him, like the feeling he gets when he reads Grant's books. Yorkshire pudding. He can taste it, taste the way the gravy hangs off it. He can picture himself putting it in his mouth. Flashes of images -- a table of six; of five; of six. He had a family; _has_ a family. Do they know where he is? Do they know what he's--

A noise from outside. 

Bugs just about jumps out of his skin. He stares at the door, fingers white around the knife; Grant appears a few seconds later. 

Bugs deflates, breath escaping through his lips. Grant frowns as he enters, a little concerned. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Bugs says. He goes back to his carrots. "Good. You?" He nods at the bags he's setting down on the floor. "How'd the deal go?"

"Fine." It doesn't sound like it went fine. "I dunno. The guy was grilling me on lingo, like I wasn't worthy of his fucking tractor part."

"So you blew him up?" Bugs shakes his head. "I keep telling you, pal, you gotta stop doing that."

Grant besets him with doleful eyes. "Am I ever gonna live that down?"

"You made an impression, what can I say."

Grant smiles as he stands from a crouch, boxes of pastries in hand. He brandishes them at him and moves to pass. "Breakfast. Heard marvels about these things." He frowns, only then registering the array on the counters. "You cooking?"

"Don't sound so," Bugs begins, but cuts off halfway through; his whole chest contracts as Grant passes by with a hand at his hip.

Bugs forces a breath. Clenches his jaw. 

Grant frowns at him, turning back. "Sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," Bugs says, but it comes out shaky. "Yeah, sorry. I... it's, uh -- I'm trying to separate fact from fiction here." He shoots him a pursed, fleeting smile, then goes back to chopping. "Weird day to be in my head."

Grant nods. That abiding sincerity again. Bugs can feel his gaze on him as he works. Bugs' cheeks grow hot; his defenses are down. Desire thrums in him with a rich, heady pulse. He exhales slow, tries to steady his knife. "I, uh -- I wanna use all this, that okay?"

"Yeah." Grant steps closer, surveying the goods. "Have at. What can I do?"

"Nothing," Bugs says. He glances at him, intensely aware of his proximity. He frowns at the steaks and clears his throat. "You got a cast-iron skillet? I could probably use--"

But Grant's already opening a cabinet above the stove, reaching up to pull it down. His shirt raises up to reveal his gut. 

It strikes Bugs as such a perfect patch of skin; a snapshot of the story that is his mortal form. His waistband's slung low over the jut of his hip and Bugs grasps with his palm, just to see what it feels like.

Then he realizes himself. 

He freezes. Grant freezes. Bugs shouldn't have done that. He's made an awful mistake. 

They're still standing too close. Bugs pulls back fast, but it's too late now. Watching him, Grant lowers the pan down onto the stove. Bugs sees his shirt settle back down, like a flow of water. 

Suddenly he's parched. "Fuck," he mutters, already helpless. He tries to turn away but can't quite get there. He looks up at Grant, trying to find it in him to take a step back. 

Grant just stares back, his eyes blue and clear. "Sorry," Grant says. 

What is _he_ sorry for? 

Something between them grows brittle and cracks. Grant's gaze falls down to Bugs' mouth before sliding back up. "I should," says Grant. He licks his lips instead of finishing. 

Bugs wants to follow his tongue as it retreats. "You, uh," Bugs says, but in the end he has nothing to say either. Somewhere behind him, a clock marks time. He feels Grant's heat; feels compelled to step toward it. He's always so warm. He's not close enough.

As though reading his mind, Grant folds his fingers at the palm of Bugs' hand. Slow as anything, he guides it back to set at his hip. It's stupid; he's stupid. This whole thing is incredibly stupid. Bugs is delirious just to touch him again. Through the fabric of Grant's shirt, he scans a thumb at the bone. His hip's still there, jutting and taut. 

Grant stands there and lets him touch. He always lets him do what he wants.

"I," Grant says, but he stops when Bugs meets his eye. "You can... uh…" 

Bugs nods. His hand dips, slides back under the line of his shirt. His grip's surer, this time. Grant sighs to the ceiling, as though relieved. He lets himself be dragged forward, tongue returning to take his own lip against it. Bugs is drunk for it, wants to taste it; wouldn't know where to start.

Grant slides a hand to hold at Bugs' back. It fits; it fits. "God," Bugs whispers. He bunches his free hand in Grant's shirt. "I--"

"--didn't want you to have the wrong--"

"Full of ideas." Under Grant's shirt, his palm traces angles. Now that he's touching him he's not sure where to stop. Suddenly it's all a little too much. Too petrified to kiss him, he draws his nose against Grant's jaw, scanning his lips across the lines of his neck, wanting to know them. 

"Oh," Grant says. There's something in it; he tips his head higher, pulls Bugs against him. His hand comes up to set in his hair. Bugs' vision turns dizzy. " _God_ ," Grant whispers; his breath sticks, breaks hard in his chest. "I -- _God_ , you're just--" 

Bugs wants to feel as much of this as he can. He drags his nose back along his jaw, his feet stepping close. Their lips glance and then pull away, out of fear or desire.

"I only want what you want from me," Grant murmurs. Bugs feels every word of it against his lips. 

"You," Bugs says, then swallows hard. His fingers twist miserably in the front of Grant's shirt as he leans in and pulls-- 

Grant kisses him, easy. It's like he knows how. Bugs knows the shape of his lips as Grant takes his mouth. He sets his hands against him, at his back, at his neck. His fingers curl like they're brought there by purpose. 

Bugs leans into that steady strength. They seem designed to hold him in place. Grant takes on the whole terrible form of him, following when Bugs leans back, stepping him toward the wall. His thigh brushes between his legs as they walk and Bugs feels his fingers dig at the back of Grant's neck, coaxing him tighter, deeper, as they stumble. 

His back hits the wall. Grant's teeth drag at his neck. There's a hand under his shirt, and _this_ is what it feels like when Grant gives in to desire: like holding, like pulling, like he'd been waiting for a reason to make Bugs his. 

"Oh," Bugs says, his head tilting back. He holds Grant against him by the hair, by the hips, leans hard. He can feel his erection, the hard, thick line of him, pressing alongside the length of his own. It's somehow familiar; it's brand fucking new. He's done this countless times and never before. He's never felt a man against him and been taken apart, and yet he has, years ago. He knows that much now. It's reassuring to know that he's still the same, in this key respect. Grant's made him discover something about himself as obvious to him now as the blinding sun.

"I," Bugs says, wanting to tell him; "I," he repeats, not knowing how. Grant doesn't care; he takes the white fire between them and burns through to more. An aborted growl sounds out of Grant's throat when his tongue maps his clavicle. His lips dip down, his hands riding high, learning Bugs' skin with encompassing intent. Every inch of Bugs feels touched until the attention's enough to surge his hips forward. He grinds his pelvis against Grant's heavy hips and oh, God, that's -- "Fuck," Buck says -- _Bugs_ says -- when Grant grips with tight hands.

"I want you," Grant growls, and Bugs doesn't need telling twice. He tries to reply, but the moan he gives when Grant's teeth find his neck is answer enough. Grant's hands are at his pants, now, undoing the clasp, fingers dipping down to set at his dick and it's barely anything, fingers set long without grip, yet heat breaks over him like there's fire at his feet. One of his hands slaps against the wall, the other clenching tight in Grant's blond hair. 

Grant falls to his knees like it's his God-given right. Bugs is frantic, he's desperate; he wants to climb up the wall by his fingernails alone. Grant traces his lips from his base to the tip. Poised but not touching. Breath does the job his mouth's meant to do. 

His eyes are on Bugs like he wants to be watched. He wants Bugs to watch. Bugs watches. He keeps his eyes locked as Grant's lips finally form against the head of him. It's dense with intent, filthy with promise. Bugs' focus grows razor-sharp as his lips push down and Grant's the only thing; he's the only thing in the world. 

They watch each other. Bugs watches him move. Grant's lips drag off him, darts his tongue out to lick them. He sets on him again and Bugs can't breathe. His nerves are on fire. His fingers clench tight, against the wall, in the thick of Grant's hair. Grant's eyes flicker closed like it's all he wants when they twist hard, knuckles at his scalp. 

"Fuck," Bugs whispers; his throat burns with desire. Something thrums in his mouth like a motive to act, but he can't move. He wouldn't want to. Grant's making him gasp, making him shiver; he takes him long back into his mouth but it's only halfway. He's only halfway and it's already too much; Buck's head tips back, he can't breathe, he can't think. "Fuck," he whispers as Grant's mouth closes tight, as his tongue drags back. "Fuck," he mutters, fist clenching, " _Steve--_ "

The name is an impact. Nothing survives. 

Bugs' desire circles, drains out through his feet. Grant pulls off him. Bugs meets his eye. 

It's not betrayal Bugs sees. It's hope.

"Oh," Bugs mutters.

"Bucky--"

His stomach turns with recognition, with realization. "Oh, _God_." The world spins; he has to go. He stumbles away, puts his dick in his pants.

"No -- don't--"

Bugs whirls around. Grant's pulling up to his feet, slower than he should. Like it pains him to do it. 

"Who are you?" Bugs asks. It comes out wretched and low. He feels a tremor course over his skin. 

Grant stares at him, brow creasing. He looks helpless, somehow. "You know me," he says.

"No. I don't. I don't know you. I don't know -- anything." Bugs runs fingers over his mouth. His hands are shaking; he's breaking a sweat. "I don't know my own fucking _name_. But -- you do. Don't you? You've been calling me the wrong..."

"I wanted you to remember."

"Oh, _God_." He looks for his boots; hastens them on. Grant steps forward as though to stop him, but Bugs scrambles out the door, finding reprieve in the break of cold air. 

"Bucky," Grant says. He's coming after him. 

Bugs whirls around, not sure what he's gonna see -- the man he left behind, or the blond in his mind. He pulls the pistol from the waistband of his jeans. 

Grant stops at once, hands in the air.

"Don't," Bugs says, raising the pistol with a shaking hand, "come near me."

"Alright. Let me explain."

"I don't want to hear a goddamn thing."

"I wanted to tell you. I thought about it a thousand times, you gotta believe--"

"Who are you?" he asks him; and then he shouts it again when met with his silence: " _Who are you?_ ", voice in fragmented shards. 

Grant's eyes shut hard. He doesn't say anything. 

"Who are you to me? Are you Hydra?"

"I'm not Hydra. I swear--"

"Prove it!"

"I -- I can't. I don't know how. What could I do that I haven't already done? You have to remember--"

"Tell me," he says, and takes a shuffling step forward. Grant doesn't step back, but he does straighten, lips pursing. At least he's taking Bugs seriously. "Tell me who you are. Tell me now, or I swear to God--"

"My name isn't Grant," Grant says over him. "My name is Steve Rogers. You've been a part of my life as far back as I can remember." He pauses, as though to see if it registers. Bugs just stares at him with a clenching jaw. "We grew up together, back in Brooklyn. We went to school together, we lived together; we went to war together--"

"Bullshit."

Grant shakes his head. "Not bullshit. We were friends. We were..." He gusts a laugh, inexplicably. "More than that, for a while. We were--" Grant steps forward. 

Bugs shuffles back. 

"Alright," Grant says, stopping, extending a hand. "You are -- James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky for short. I'm sorry, I -- slipped. I've been slipping -- I handled this as best I could."

"Shut up."

"You were -- you _are_ \-- the oldest in your family. You have three sisters. Your birthday's March 10--"

"I don't believe you."

"--and we fought in the war together, you and me, both of us, against Hydra. I think that's why you -- I mean, I think that's why they--" Grant can't finish the sentence. "I don't know why you're here. I don't know how you survived. You want those answers? I don't have them. The last time I saw you was... Bucky, it--" He exhales in patent frustration. "We're not supposed to _be here_. I don't know what Hydra did to you to land you here, but you died. I saw you fall. There's no way you survived. When I saw you by the side of the road... I thought I was losing my goddamned mind."

"You're spitting lies."

"I'm not. I'm not. Everything I've told you is the God's honest truth. I know it's hard to believe; that's why I didn't tell you. But I -- I just want to help, I want you to be _safe_. I don't know why you're here, but now that you are... I mean you no harm, please say you believe that."

Bugs might be fighting hard against the grim bile of panic, but he can see plain as day that Grant believes every word that he's saying.

"You made me believe I was safe here," Bugs finally says, swallowing. "You lied to me--"

Grant exhales, eyes shutting. "I didn't lie. I tried to tell you the truth."

"No." He shakes his head hard. "No. You know me?" He steps forward, gestures between them with the gun. "You never told me. I thought I was a stranger to you. I thought we met in the middle of the night with no one around to see it happen, that I didn't know who the fuck you were. I thought it was by some crazy providence that I just happened to find someone who could understand a fraction of what I was trying to deal with. But if it turns out that we're connected -- if they know to look for you, if we fought Hydra _together_ \-- then they're coming for me. And the second they realize--"

"I don't think--"

"What?" Bugs shouts at him. "What? You don't think what? You don't think they'd look for me? Do you know what they did to me?" He gestures frantically at his arm. "Do you know what the fuck they made me _do_?"

Grant only shakes his head. "I don't--"

He does know. He's known all along. 

The ground falls out from under his feet. Bugs lets his gun arm fall, turns aside. "Oh, _God--_ "

"It's not -- Bucky, you didn't kill those people. Hydra--"

"Are you stupid," Bugs asks, tone hysterical, "or are you insane? _Seven hundred and twenty thousand people_ gone in the blink of an eye, killed in under a second. You knew I was there to make it happen, and you did -- shit all? You kept making me breakfast, kept letting me--" He shakes his head. "Oh, you are insane. I get it now. You're delusional and you're insane."

"You were there," Grant placates, "when the massacre happened. That doesn't mean you were responsible."

"You're out of it." The guy's a lost cause. The certainty of it makes his legs turn steady. "You're out of your head. This was a mistake." He turns on his heel. 

Grant starts to follow. "Where are you going?"

"Away from here."

"Without a destination? At least let me drive you--"

"No," he bites, harsh. "I'm not getting into your vehicle again. Have you listened to a word I've said? I'm leaving, without you. I made it fine before I met you. You want to stop me?" He turns and cocks the gun at him again. This time, his arm holds steady. "Go ahead and try."

Grant stops dead again. He stares at him with determination. It's familiar; Bugs hates that. He holds the gun at him, challenging, but Grant still doesn't move. 

"I'm gonna go get my things," Bugs says, slowly, so there's no confusion. "You're not going to interfere. You're gonna stand where you are without moving until I have left your property. If you move from that spot, I'll shoot you in the leg. Try to stop or attack me, and I'll shoot _to kill_." He stares him down, as though to make himself clear. "I won't blink, and I won't miss. And if you have trouble believing me, maybe you should check your own damn research on just how much target practice I've had."

He stares at Grant, steady. Grant stares back, breath heavy in his chest. Bugs waits for him to step forward, but all he does is let his shoulders go slack. 

Bugs nods, sure he's been understood. "Don't follow me," he says again, and turns to the guesthouse. 

He spends sixty seconds throwing his shit in a bag. When he steps back outside, he sees Grant where he left him. 

The man looks devastated, breath curling harsh into the air, but he hasn't moved from where he was. Bugs' hand shakes with adrenaline when he walks by. 

"I was trying to do right by you." 

His voice comes quiet. Bugs has already passed by. Grant still doesn't move; he didn't even turn to watch him go. Bugs' feet drag to a halt, gun heavy in his hand. "My methods weren't right," Grant continues. "But I was trying to help." 

Now, with his back to him, Bugs lets his eyes shut with feeling. "No," he tells the sky. "You were trying to do right by yourself. God knows that's all I ever do, but at least be fucking honest with yourself."

Grant doesn't say a word.

Bugs' feet trudge forward. 

Grant doesn't chase him, and Bugs doesn't look back.

  


  


  


  


**iii.**

Spring is dry in California. The sun hangs in the sky, too bright most days. The habit of waking at dawn stays with him; the sun comes to rouse him earlier each day. He makes a point of it to stare the thing down when he wakes up too early to do anything else and winds up appreciating the Oakland sky through the tall lines cast by the city.

He came with enough cash to put down on a room and keeps up enough cashflow to keep it. Oakland is building. He works fast, plus he's stronger than average. Most people seem willing to look past his eccentricities, like the fact that he works in long sleeves and gloves. 

Remembering has become a mere inconvenience, no longer something that derails his whole day. It still blanks him out; in the middle of cooking he'll start smelling smoke and realize he's been stalled there for long, spanning minutes. None of what he remembers is clear. He understands what he's seeing less than half the time. 

He was an assassin. He's known that for a while. He gives it a name, then runs for two hours. He doesn't kill anyone in that span of time, which seems like a good sign. It might be a year since he's killed anyone. That seems like a better one.

Before he was an assassin, he thinks he was a soldier. He remembers standing somewhere while feeling like shit and seeing ~~Steve~~ ~~Grant~~ Steve standing with him. They'd looked out over the same mountaintops, side by side, standing as one. He was an assassin then too. Or maybe he wasn't. These are the things that are harder to parse.

He finds the phone card he used to call Grant and breaks it in half, reveling in the snap of it. He finds the business card with Grant's phone number and sets it on fire. He remembers the number anyway. He tries to forget it. Everything he remembers he tries to forget. 

The ten digits stick in his head: seven eight five five five five six four three eight. Here are eight more: three two five five seven zero two eight. He doesn't know what they mean, but he sure remembers them. Numbers come easy; it's names that elude.

Once, he trips on the sidewalk and remembers glancing his thumb over somebody's palms. They're small and bloodied and embedded with gravel and somebody hisses as he brushes them clean. He hits his head on a cabinet door and thinks of cleaning blood off some stupid kid's face where it gushes in rivulets from a cut in his head. He smiles when he thinks of these; yet what life has he lived? From start to finish it's all fucking blood. It's Steve and it's blood, only Steve isn't right. He remembers his sisters and grasps for their names, exclaiming them in fits in the middle of stores -- but there's Steve and there's _Steve,_ small and then big. Quiet and loud. One of them's wrong but he can't grasp which one.

He remembers Brooklyn, but remembers that wrong, too. He remembers a photograph on a newspaper page: _1928_ , in giant letters, while a group of people stand in Times Square. It grates at him, makes him feel ill. Did he read it somewhere? His idea of New York doesn't fit with this world. Even Kansas seemed busier than what lives in his head. He thinks about catching a bus to see for himself, but there's something about east that makes him feel weary. 

That's where he came from. He doesn't want to go back.

1928\. He'd have been just about eleven years old. 

He thinks it suddenly, then has to sit down. The idea's entrenched; he can't pry it loose. In a fit of desperation, he takes a trip to the library, hoping research will tell him if he's crazy or what. Photos confirm he has no idea what New York looks like, but the further back the images go, the more it looks familiar. That doesn't help to put him at ease. 

He searches for New Year's in Manhattan, 1928, and finds what he's looking for -- people gathered in Times Square, the way he'd imagined. 

So that's it. That's all. He's just seen this image before. A conclusion he'd sought, and a conclusion he'd found.

But somehow his instincts won't let him rest. He can't shake the idea of the front page in his _hands_. He ruminates on it, determined to understand -- was he an archivist once? He must have had a job before he joined the Army, only doesn't he feel an affinity with building? Newspapers hardly fit in with that. 

He can't sleep. He goes back to the library. The internet's a minefield, but he looks up his name -- the name Grant gave him, whatever the fuck. 

At least it's a hit. He's met with endless articles and book citations. One dubious passage reads: 

_James Buchanan Barnes: The Allied Effort's Unsung Hero_

Dated: January, 1951.

The man whose name he shares was a Sergeant and a sniper. He was accomplished. He served on a unit with a Steve Rogers, just like Grant said. They both fought Hydra, tried to kill it at the root -- or so he surmises from the reference to Nazis.

They grew up together, Steve a constant all his life.

But Steve Rogers, known as Captain America, died less than two weeks after the man with his name. 

So Grant was delusional. He's a farmer from Kansas who thinks he's Captain America. Bugs was as vigilant as was possible, and he'd still fallen for a fanatic -- a manipulative asshole whose beliefs were strong enough read like the truth. That's on him. He got so invested that it's fucking with his head. James Barnes is dead, and so is Steve Rogers. End line of inquiry.

Then he sees the pictures.

Well, now he's hallucinating. Yeah, fuck it, add it to the pile. Steve could be Grant, if Grant was ten years younger and a lot more green, but it's him that's the clincher: same frown to his mouth, same cleft to his chin. 

Him and James Barnes could be dead goddamn ringers. He runs his hand across the guy's face, entranced. He prints the picture and gets the fuck out of there, electric with energy, unable to keep still. 

He keeps the photo facedown at the bottom of his bag, then runs for two hours; doesn't sleep that night. He spends ten hours at work and still can't get it out of his head. In a dedicated bid to knock himself out, he buys a bottle of scotch on his way home. He doesn't look at the picture, gets through the whole thing. 

All it wins him is an hour of sleep before he wakes with a shout, having dreamed of the war -- the war he _remembers_. _The_ war, with Germans and Frenchmen. He remembers the dances, the barracks in London. He thinks he remembers the stock market crash. 

He has no memory of the '80s, which he should for his age -- he remembers one thing about 1986 and he remembers it in Russia. He speaks Russian, too. He speaks sixteen languages that he can identify. 

Did Hydra do that? Is that even possible? 

Was Grant his handler all along? Trying to convince him he's from another era might be enough to get him back under someone's control. If it was a honeypot, it was pretty well done. Set him up with fake memories, cognitive fog, and a beautiful man of heartfelt convictions and he is -- _apparently_ \-- ripe for the picking.

He pulls the image back out from the bottom of his sack. There he is again; he hadn't imagined it. 

Is he James Barnes, reincarnated? Is this his crazy supernatural bid to get back at Hydra from beyond the grave?

Well, now he's really losing it. Desperate for answers, he blurs his vision and holds up a thumb to cover the lower half of Steve Rogers' face. It doesn't help him with denial. He swallows his pride and goes back to the library, looking up 'Captain America beard' and 'Captain America farmer.' One conspiracy blog does swear he saw Steve Rogers sprinting through the streets of Manhattan three years ago, but none of the follow-up photos from fellow conspiracists look at all like the man.

He learns about photoshop. He doesn't think it's photoshop. 

And -- why doesn't he know what photoshop is? Why does he know every class of weapon off the top of his head but he barely knows how to use a computer? He knows what they _are_ but he doesn't know how to _use_ them; knows Grant's outdated with his VCR, but faced with a DVR and a TV to make it communicate with and he's pretty sure he'd be a lost cause.

The thing of it is, his instincts are good. They overreact, but they haven't led him wrong. He'd been right about Grant: the man had had an agenda, but no matter how many times he plays it over in his head, he can't remember an ounce of malice in him. He'd never been captive. He'd never been harmed. Every time Bugs had wanted to, Grant had let him walk away.

  


  


  


  


He dials Grant's number from memory before he can second-guess himself.

The voice says it's out of service. Bugs frowns at the receiver; hangs up, dials again, gets the same damn message. He puts the phone down, chews his lip until it bleeds, then tries again three days later to find it's still out of service.

That doesn't make sense. He hasn't remembered the number wrong. He hadn't wanted to talk to him, necessarily; he just wants answers. Part of him wanted to hear the stress of hesitation when Bugs asked him what year Grant was born. He wanted to revel in it; wanted to hear him sound insane when he gave him Captain America's date of birth, or the lie in his voice when he tried to say he was born in '81.

He hadn't bargained for a disconnected line. A hard weight forms in his stomach as he wracks through the possibilities. Did Hydra find him? Did they disconnect the line to convey he'd been found, made an example of? Did Bugs' presence in his home doom a well-meaning man? 

He can't imagine Hydra caring that much. If they'd found him and killed him, he'd still be getting Grant's answering machine -- either with that stupid fucking message, or one of Hydra's own. Or he knows what he would have done: unplugged the answering machine and let the phone ring and ring and ring and ring. 

A disconnected line means nothing. A disconnected line means a cover-up of another kind.

He spends three days pacing and smoking nervously -- a habit picked up on some old affiliation between orange embers and comfort. He figures that Grant, if he's there, would let him leave again if he wanted. He knows what Bugs is capable of, but only by half. 

Bugs needs answers. He can't keep going like this. If he shows up and SHIELD's taken him, at least then he'll know.

  


  


  


  


He takes a bus to Salina, hitches a ride a bit further. Thirty-eight hours later, he stands at the foot of the driveway as the sun threatens to rise.

He steps casually into the brush to hide, hoping the departing dusk is enough cover to mask him. He waits there a while, seeing nothing, hearing nothing but the birds. 

He takes his gun from the back of his pants and steps over the grass. The farm looks different in the spring. The trees are budding, the grass green from rain. In the orange of twilight, the barn glows a bright, impossible red. He turns the corner of the drive and can see from here that something is off -- the shutters on the windows of the farmhouse have been nailed shut; the cowshed is empty, no cows out to pasture. When he glances behind him, he sees a lock on the barn, a heavy chain wrapped at the doors.

Someone left it like this. Somebody wanted it to look abandoned.

He waits; scans the scenery for traps; takes another step forward when he finds none. On approach to the house, he finds nothing else worth noting -- no signs of violence or any kind of struggle. Grant's truck isn't in the drive. The door's locked tight, all the windows impenetrable. Bugs walks the perimeter, checks the barn, the guesthouse, the cowshed, the house -- and thinks there's no discrepancy until he finds the upstairs window.

A nail is placed wrong. It's little to the side, while the rest sit with precision. Only someone truly looking would notice the difference.

Bugs sighs. He plans his route. He's going to get himself killed by his own hand at this rate. He thinks he can climb the trellis to the roof from the porch, then get at the window from the roof peak there. 

God, the man had to make this complicated, didn't he? Still, Bugs somehow does it, maneuvering all 180 pounds of himself onto the roof by a structure designed to hold flowers. From the roof, he manages to pry open the window shutters with help from a loose shingle. He breaks the window with his metal arm and slides into the house with some buried reflex. 

He rolls to his feet, silent as he can, taking out the gun and holding it steady with both hands. He's in Grant's bedroom, which he's never seen before -- and here, finally, he finds the man's personality. An easel sits in the corner, palette and paints sitting nearby; the bed is made, unwrinkled and tucked. Books on farming, planting, agriculture, livestock fill half of a bookshelf, science fiction and poetry filling what space remains. 

His laptop sits in the corner on a desk. Bugs' eye catches on a tall stack of folders beside it. Ears cocked for any sign of movement, he inches forward and reads the labels on each. Thinner files -- _Nick Fury, 4/4/2014,_ and _Project Insight_ \-- sit on top, while others -- _SHIELD; Hydra 1945-1975; Hydra 1976-Present_ \-- sit significantly thicker underneath. Shoved hastily between them, like Grant didn't even want to look at it, there is another folder, medium-sized -- _Winter Soldier Program_ , its label more hastily scribbled than all the rest.

Bugs knows what this is. He glances to the doorway. His heart's pounding; he knows he should clear the place. But answers are what he came for, and he's sure he found them here.

He pushes the folder open with a delicate finger. He's faced at once with the brutally familiar: black paint around the eyes, his mouth covered by a muzzle, hair draping in long curtains at his temples -- he'd bet money he's looking at himself. 

If the print date at the top of the page is any indication, Grant knew what he'd done before Bugs even arrived at the farm. He'd known what he was and what he was involved in. And when Bugs called, he came to get him from Denver and brought him to his home, like it didn't matter at all.

He lets the top of the folder fall, puts his pistol at the ready. His breathing falls haggard, but there's no shake in his hands. Adrenaline pounds him, but it's fuel to him now, helping his vigilance. He clears the upstairs. A second bathroom sits empty with a clawfoot tub, a rusted-out shower, and wallpaper that looks three decades old. A small bedroom used for storage is stuffed full with furniture that might've come with the house. Lots of children's things. Stuff Grant would have no use for.

Assuming Grant is Steve Rogers. 

Is that what he believes? 

He nudges a chair aside with his foot, decides there's no one here, either. He turns to the staircase. 

He pauses there, breath quickening. The first hint of a tremor courses through his arms. Thinking about it, he's braced for the worst. Half of him expects to walk down the stairs and find Grant sitting at the table -- either knowing he's there, an automatic weapon in his lap, or else brutally murdered and left rotting as warning. 

He listens for insects, hears nothing at all. He comes down the stairs to find nobody there. The kitchen is spotless, silent as stone. He clears it easy; the bathroom, living room both untouched. He checks every closet, peeks into some cabinets, and finally decides the whole house is empty.

He lets his gun hand fall. From all appearances, the bastard really just left. The layer of dust sitting on the shelves is present, but thin. He's been gone a few weeks and not much more. 

He's late. He took too long. ~~Steve~~ may be stubborn, but there's limits to hope. Bugs imagines him sitting at the kitchen table, fist at his lips, staring at the door or at the phone, waiting to see if Bugs was going to come back. 

How long did Grant wait? When did he leave?

There's a note on the table.

_It's yours.  
  -SR_

  


  


  


  


Bugs plans to leave. SHIELD's looking for ~~Steve~~ , Hydra's looking for Bugs. The connection between them still exists. He's findable here. It'd be foolish to stay.

He still stays three days, poring through Grant's files. He pries open the shutters and stays three more. He steadily eats his way through a freezer full of TV dinners on the days he can stomach it until a set of keys hanging by the door annoys him into investigating. 

He tests the keys in the lock on the barn until it opens, and a peer inside leads to a groan. It's the truck they stashed in Colorado, missing tailgate and all. Grant must have gotten it and driven it back. 

Bugs stares at it a while, shaking his head. Finally he gets in and tests the bootlegged key, and the engine roars to life. It runs surprisingly well for a piece of shit its age. "Fitting," he murmurs. "Thanks, asshole." 

He goes to the house and grabs what cash he has left, blows almost all of it on food in town. It's like he thinks he's not going anywhere, like it wouldn't take an idiot to stay where he is. The thing is, there's files he hasn't touched. It isn't secure to have them anywhere else. It isn't secure to have them where he is, either, but at least if he's here, he'll know if they're found.

Since landing back here, Bugs has more questions than ever. If Grant gathered this info, he could at least answer some of them. If he came back.

He could come back.

  


  


  


  


It takes him a while to figure out why the field to the west is growing taller, but then he remembers the winter wheat. It must have survived despite Grant's departure. ~~Bugs~~ stares at it a long time, hands on his hips, pissed at it for some reason he can't discern. He goes inside and reads what he can about winter wheat.

He discovers irrigation equipment stashed away under a tarp in the barn, behind where he now habitually parks the truck. It was one thing to fix the equipment, but it's another to use it. He spends much of the next days swearing extravagantly and straining his back trying to figure the whole thing out, but when he finally makes it work, something warm fills his chest. 

Weirdly energized the whole rest of the week, he drags out the sunflower seeds they set aside months ago. He plants them, too, though he couldn't say why. It's the satisfaction of it, maybe; of learning something new for the very first time. This is something neither James Barnes nor the Winter Soldier knew how to do. He's doing this alone. He's cultivating skills that take advantage of no one. Planting a crop yields no fucking bodies. Something survives because Buck is there.

  


  


  


  


He stays through the spring. Then he stays through the summer. 

The harvest turns out. It's not perfect; he waits too long to cut down the sunflowers and the birds eat half the crop. He spends more time that autumn than he cares to admit running half-naked through fields with a broom in his hand. Part of him hopes Steve comes back to witness the spectacle of Buck in his underwear, hair tied loosely at the top of his head, shouting at birds to get off his dick. It's a weird fantasy, but long enough on his own and he's stopped giving a shit about what's weird and what's not. 

Fantasy spills naturally from what he's remembered. Far from everything, it's at least enough. He remembers the way Steve was before the war -- the way he'd pulled Buck out from Hydra a full foot taller and with eighty pounds on his frame. He remembers the time they'd spent behind closed doors, the way those bony fingers and spindly feet tended to grip at him like he was the only real thing. He remembers the way Steve fell to his knees and wouldn't move until watched, the way Grant had -- Steve had -- in the kitchen of his home. It'd been so fucking typical, the way he'd taken him here. All he'd been doing was what he knew how.

He remembers the '20s, the '30s, the Depression, the war. He remembers some of the things that he did for Hydra. Reading Steve's files, he remembers the Massacre in far more detail than he'd ever desired. It rots in him, makes him ill; leaves him curled up for days at a time. 

He also knows that he'd never have chosen it. They made him do things he remembers resisting. He knows he could resist again. It's complex. It's answers. 

Maybe he is insane; maybe he made it all up. Maybe Grant's delusions were strong enough to affect him. But everything he remembers, every word that Steve told him -- it's all quantifiable. No matter how hard he tries, he can't find the lie.

In the five months he's been here, Steve hasn't come back. He hasn't called, he hasn't written. He doesn't know Buck's there, so it makes sense that he hasn't, but since he reconnected the phone line he thought he might've called it. Just the once. Just to see if he had. 

But, no. That's fine. Buck was clear in his message, the last time they met. Buck might've worried about him but for the trail Steve's left. He knows that he's out there, that the bastard's alive, and after the harvest, he knows what to do. 

He hangs the sunflowers to dry, sells the wheat for good cash. He puts down a new crop so it's there to come back to. He doesn't know why, except that Steve might want to come back. If they survive this, they might want to tend to something alive.

It was smart of Steve to board up the house. If it looks abandoned, maybe it'll get left alone. Buck does it again before he leaves, then throws his notes and folders and cash into the truck.

He pays his debts and fills the tank. Then he drives toward Denver, thinking of the sunflowers he left hanging in the barn.

  


  


  


  


He finds Steve near Girdwood, in a poorly lit bar.

"I'll take a scotch," Buck tells the bartender. "Rocks. And one more for my friend." He thumbs beside him.

The bartender retreats. Buck pulls up a stool. He knows Steve's looking at him, but he can't bear to turn. He'd walked in to find him with his shoulders sloped low -- and now, at the sound of his voice, Steve's sitting tall again, breath coming short. 

For all his nerve, Buck can track him to Alaska. He just can't actually look at him once he finds him there.

Steve stares a long minute. When Buck finally finds it in him to glance aside, it hits him hard. Steve looks like... _himself_ , in ways; his hair's cut short, beard shaven and half regrown. He's got a bruise on his cheekbone, a cut over his eye. Buck's memories may as well have combined to build him -- he's Steve, and he's Grant. He's the kid, the grizzled farmer, and Captain America in one. 

Buck can't read his face through the exhaustion he finds. That pains him. He smiles through it, half in nerves, half apology. 

The bartender brings their drinks.

"How'd you find me?" Steve finally asks, voice a low rasp.

Buck slides him a glass. "Didn't I tell you? You keep blowing up buildings, you're gonna leave a trail."

Steve lets them sit there in tension a while. He drains his first drink, then reaches a hand. He tips Buck's head toward him. Buck goes where he's led, Steve's knuckle at his chin. 

The fire in Steve's gaze is no less intense, but it seems muted, somehow. Wary and weary, and something in alongside. 

"You remember," Steve says.

Buck pulls back. "Not everything," he says to his drink, but then nods. "But… enough."

Steve turns his glass in his hand and lets them lapse into silence. 

"You might've mentioned we were born in the 'teens," Buck finally mutters.

Steve does laugh, at least -- a little subdued. It's more dry than joyful, not quite leaving his chest. "Yeah," he says slowly. "There weren't enough words in the English language to make that one make sense."

"I speak fifteen of 'em. Couldn't have tried German?"

"They probably do have a word."

" _Weltschmerz._ "

"Something like that."

The tension still doesn't break. Buck glances at him sidelong. Steve sits hunched and rigid, free hand in a fist. "Looked for you at home," Buck murmurs. "Your wheat came up."

Steve blinks at him. "That right?"

"Sold that for a penny. Hell of a cash crop, did you know that?"

"You... stayed until harvest?"

Buck smiles, half-hearted. "Had to take out a loan, but I made it work. Skipped the corn, did the sunflowers. Birds ate the hell out of 'em. Plus I lost some of the profit to interest, but you'll see your money."

"Not my money."

"It's your land."

"It's _yours,_ Buck. I left it to you."

Buck had figured it out a while ago, but it's still hard to hear it aloud. He takes a breath through his nose, lets it out slow. "So you really never meant to come back, huh."

Steve doesn't answer. He spins his glass against the bar, fumbles it a bit. Buck wonders how long he's been sitting here drinking.

"Guess it's a good thing I came looking, then," Buck says.

"Not so sure about that."

Boy, has he missed the old Steve Rogers snit. "You throwing yourself into brawls single-handed hasn't exactly worked out all that well for you in the past."

"Guess you'd know a little something about solo combat tactics."

"You trying to be mean to get rid of me? Don't you know better by now?"

To his credit, Steve doesn't push. He just hunches over his glass, down and defeated.

Buck better say something. He opens his mouth, but his apology falters. What is there to say? _Sorry I threatened you? Sorry I took a while? Sorry I killed everyone? Sorry I wasn't on time?_

"Sorry," Steve murmurs. "I'm so sorry, Bucky."

Buck's head snaps to him as he blinks through his shock. "What? What the hell do you have to be sorry for?"

"Should've told you. Could've--"

"Got nothing -- hey. _Look_ at me." It's a snap, impatient. Steve's face flies to him as though in command. "You picked up a hitchhiker and wound up with a shellshocked soldier in the cab of your car. I was armed to the teeth and waving a gun in your face. _Your_ reaction, somehow, was to take me in, feed me, and give me a place to live while I got my head on straight -- and you're _sorry_?" Buck shakes his head. "You're a goddamned saint. You did all you could. You left your own damn home open on the chance I might use it."

Steve bows his head, neck curving. Buck reaches on instinct; grips a hand at the back of it. "I'd be worse off now if it wasn't for you. If you'd sat me down from day one and tried to explain to me I was a hundred years old -- that you and me used to canoodle during the Second World War -- I'd have shot you on sight, I think you know." Steve laughs, breathy and strained. He sits up a little. At least he's getting somewhere. "You did all you could for me, Steve. I can't say it enough. In your position I think I'd have probably left me by the side of the road."

Steve glances at him, sidelong. "Would you have?"

Suddenly he's not sure.

The silence grows long. Looking at him, Buck can see the extent of Steve's exhaustion. Hesitant, afraid to do it, he reaches a thumb to the gash on his head. "The hell are you moving in a straight line for?" Buck murmurs. "East to west, DC to Seattle… any asshole could guess you'd be here."

Steve winces under the press of his thumb. "Just trying to get the job done."

"You're like a straight-shooting arrow, always have been. When you gonna shake things up, huh? You remember that time on the Austrian border-" Steve groans. Buck smiles despite himself. "You were so damn busy fighting the asshole in front of you that you didn't even notice the guy behind until I shot him down and you turned toward the sound. Remember that?"

"I -- know how to listen now."

"That right? That why you got beat?"

Steve exhales, looks away again. He palms the glass of scotch carefully in his hand.

The man turns off faster than an automatic switch. Buck turns forward, too; gives him a moment to toil in annoyance. "You going back in?" Buck asks.

"'Course I'm going back in."

"You got a better plan this time?"

"Yeah," Steve says. "Move faster."

Buck clicks his tongue, but Steve just shrugs. "You're the one who said it," Steve adds. "We don't know the first thing--"

"You know the layout of this place. Why is your same plan--"

"Yeah. Knowing the layout means I can move faster."

Buck hangs his head. "Steve..."

"Don't patronize me. Show up in the middle of my operation getting critical--"

"You're missing the point. Now that I'm here--"

"What, you gonna come with me?" 

Buck doesn't say anything. Steve's head snaps over as soon as he figures it out. His mouth falls open, brow ironing out. 

"There we go."

"Bucky..." Steve looks pained. "No way."

"Why not?"

"It's -- _Hydra._ They -- I mean, _you_ \--"

"All the more reason to pull my own weight."

Realization settles over Steve's face by steady degrees. "Don't do this."

"Why," he repeats slowly, "not?"

"You don't owe me."

"I owe myself. What's the use of having all this in my head if I don't use it?"

"It's a risk."

"So is everything."

"Bucky…"

"I can't do anything to put right what I've done--"

" _You_ didn't--"

"I did plenty," he says over him. "And if there's something I can do, goddamn _anything_ , to make sure it doesn't happen again…" He shakes his head grimly, swallowing hard against the waver in his voice. "It'd be wrong not to do it. Now I, unlike you, am not stupid enough to throw myself headlong into the lion's den alone--"

"You shouldn't be anywhere _near_ this thing."

"--but if I'm remembering right, you and me used to make a hell of a team. And I'm not willing--"

"You're remembering wrong."

"Didn't I tell you to cut that out?" Buck hisses at him. "Don't manipulate me just because you think it'll save my life. You really gonna try to take back what I've earned just because you're too fucking proud to accept a little help?"

Steve curls up in shame, huddled over the bar. "It's already been once I didn't save you," Steve finally scrapes out.

"And from what I've seen, you'll move heaven and earth to prevent the same outcome again. Listen." Buck's tired of talking to his shoulder; he reaches out and grabs Steve's chin with one hand. "I've had a lot of shit put in my head by Hydra through the years," he says slowly, holding his gaze. "But this stuff about _units_? That's yours. _You_ told me this is what units do. _You_ told me not to take on this world alone. And now that I see you don't take your own advice--"

"That was different." Steve leans in as he says it. Buck sees a fresh blue bruise at his jaw. He softens his hand; runs his fingers against it. "I was talking about living," Steve goes on. "Not going direct to the belly of the beast."

"We used to do this all the time. You pulled me out of Hydra the first time and we went right back in. Now I don't see why--"

" _Damn_ it, Bucky, are you listening to me? I'm not letting them get their hands on you again."

It cracks down the middle. Steve shuts his eyes hard. He tries to turn away, but Buck pulls him right back. 

"I believe you," he murmurs, grip firm at his jaw. "Alright? I believe you. I do. But I'm not about to stand aside and let them to get their hands on you instead. _Trust_ me when I tell you they'd put you to good use. And if I can prevent it--"

"You should be far from this." He slips away after all.

Buck looks forward, sighing. "If anyone should be in it--"

"It's under control."

"They took you down," Buck says, firm. "Don't you get that? You did not succeed. You went in and they beat you. I hate to think what you looked like six hours ago. Unless you change things up, one of these days they'll best you and keep you, Steve. Now this time they're expecting you, and you don't have a plan--"

"What're you gonna do, snipe them like in Austria?"

"Well, yeah! For a start!"

Steve stares at him. Buck stares back. "Why the hell do you think I came here?" Buck says. "I didn't drive 3,500 miles just to pay you goddamn wheat money. You think I don't want to take Hydra down after what they've done? Oh, for _Christ's_ \--" 

He cuts off; Steve's face has collapsed into strain and regret, and he knows by now not to yell at him through it. Buck just sighs, reaches forward, and slips his gloved hand into Steve's, fingers flush against his palm. "Neither one of us is gonna make it out of this thing alone," he grinds out. "You might find that shit acceptable, but I don't. Now I plan to drag you out of danger while your heart's still beating for as long as mine is too, and if you object to that, I'm gonna have to subject you to an exhaustive run-down of every back-alley brawl I happen to remember pulling you from to date. You tell me, Steve -- if I'm looking at about 70% capacity right now, just how long do you think that's gonna take?"

Steve gives something like a laugh, but it sounds more like something's stuck in his throat. He looks at Buck with an expression ravaged by grief, but then, finally, he drags his fingers back until they fit loose together with his. "We're a goddamned unit," Buck reminds him, leaning in close. He can smell the whiskey on his breath, wishes he was tasting it instead. "You told me that yourself, so just -- accept it, alright? Just take the hand that's offered to you--" his voice cracks, surprising him -- "for once in your lousy, miserable life."

That, finally, seems to break through. Steve's brow collapses, his face tilting to the sky. 

Buck watches him, throat burning. Steve squeezes his fingers and holds Buck's hand up to his lips. Even through his glove, Buck feels the warmth of it; the detail of his skin. He slips his hand out of Steve's grasp and touches a thumb to his lips, to the corner of his eye; rubs the moisture he finds between his fingers, draws the rest of it away. 

"I got maps," Steve tells him. He sounds rough, but resolved. "In my room."

"Yeah?"

"We could… go make a plan."

Buck smiles, slow, and pulls bills from his pocket before Steve can object. "You owe a lot?"

Steve makes a face. Buck throws the whole wad on the bar. "Alright," he says. "Let's go make a plan."

  


  


  


  


They step into the motel room, Buck close in Steve's space. The door's barely closed behind them before Steve's hands twist in his coat.

"I barely know what to call you," Buck mutters as Steve drags his mouth against his throat, his back against the door. "Spent so many goddamned months when I thought you were Grant jerking off with your name in my mouth--"

"Oh my God," Steve answers, utterly gone. "Whatever you want. Call me anything you want. It's yours, Buck, I'm yours, I'm all--"

They make love against the wall, sentimental and ravenous.

Then they get the maps out, and they make themselves a plan.

  


  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for "winter wheat, sunflower peat" by newsbypostcard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13296615) by [Lovesfic (me23)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/me23/pseuds/Lovesfic)
  * [[Podfic] winter wheat, sunflower peat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13908732) by [quietnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietnight/pseuds/quietnight)




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